


Darkest Earth, Sweetest Orange

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Chris does not ask Tom's permission every time they have sex, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Growling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Instincts, Smut, and Chris is a big ball of power, dub con, forced blood feeding, hiddlesworth au, human!Tom, in which Tom bleeds a lot, looking at each other, lots of looking and secret familiar messages passing between the two, only at the beginning, vampire!Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom lives a quiet life in London until early one morning, Christopher crashes in through his bedroom window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkest Earth, Sweetest Orange

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, so a little back story on this hiddlesworth tale, based on [this](http://umakoo.tumblr.com/post/74096529442/so-i-kinda-had-this-modern-day-hiddlesworth) public prompt. Thank you to umakoo for posting it! 
> 
> I started writing it back in February I think, and I got sidetracked with other stories. I kept writing it over the months, a little here and there, until I finally finished it today! Umakoo let me know that she was going to write her own story based on the prompt, and that it would be ok if I continued with my own version of it. I'd already written quite a bit, so apart from traditional elements of vampiric lore and the scene outlined in the prompt, the plot lines are very different. 
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy my version :) If any are wondering, [this](http://mi-delirio-es-el.tumblr.com/post/91473379873) and [this](http://mi-delirio-es-el.tumblr.com/post/79388596219/chris-hemsworth) is how I pictured Christopher. [This](http://mi-delirio-es-el.tumblr.com/post/98973096478) and [this](http://mi-delirio-es-el.tumblr.com/post/98814807548) is how I pictured Tom. 
> 
> This was beta'd by the amazing and incomparable duskyhuedladysatan. Seriously the best beta a writer could ever ask for. iloveyouohmygosh <3
> 
> UPDATE UPDATE!!! This story now has [fan art](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/post/104096204588/my-hiddlesworth-fanart). It's GORGEOUS!! <3 Thank you [treemuse](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/)!

Not since his time at university had Tom dreamt of that snow-capped mountain. He usually saw himself from afar, out of body, taking careful steps through jagged rocks and piled boulders. But unlike when he used to run through those fields and hills as a child in Scotland, he always saw himself as a grown man in the dream, walking through a narrow crevice in the stone and vanishing completely. His father would never let him enter the mountain, said it was unsafe and as an only child, Tom wouldn’t have someone to look after him while his parents tended to things around the farm. But the alarm he felt in his dream at seeing himself disappear inside never failed to wake him, glancing around his dark dormitory, his roommate fast asleep in his own bunk.

It always took him a while to fall back into slumber, not in any kind of hurry to revisit the panic he felt watching himself disappear into that misty fracture in the mountain’s side, already calculating how cold it would be within. Or maybe it would be a humid cavern, something akin to the imagination of Tolkien, warm and breathing and alive with its stone walls and flickering firelight and dripping, echoing depths. Despite knowing it was just a dream, Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t come out of that mountain alive.

Years had passed since his time wandering the halls of that ancient institution. Perhaps, in his own mind, the mountain was his way of facing his fear of failing and not graduating and thereby ruining his entire life. Everyone has such moments of unease, didn’t they? He had no need to worry about that now, he thought, as he stood at his kitchen window, looking out at the warm late-spring dawn cresting over the city, the sky pink and orange. Still hidden beneath the edge of the world, the sun was taking its sweet time rising fully.

After his parents’ deaths, he moved to London and made a small life for himself there. The farmhouse was demolished, even if the acres of land were still under his name. And still the mountain waited, abutting the property and looming majestically, like a cragged tear in the otherwise unblemished sky.

He’d managed just fine on his own, landing a quiet job with a publishing company and buying his own flat after a few years, done with renting and all the instability that came with it. His was a calm life, one he livened up by attending poetry readings or live plays in charming, intimate theater houses, running in the evenings and commuting to work in the Underground every morning.

But then last night, he’d had that dream of the mountain again, chest tight with the feeling of fluttering anxiety it always left behind. It had settled heavily on his conscience, like a bad flavor coating one’s tongue. 

Rising in the pre-dawn chill, he’d stretched until his joints popped and peeked out between the drapes of his bedroom window, considering a run that Saturday morning. Deciding to have some coffee and read over the newspaper first, he shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen.

He set the coffee to brew and then slipped on the robe he’d left hanging on one of the kitchen chairs the night before. A cat sprinted out into the street from the side of his house as he ambled down the drive, a fast furry blur of grey and white, spitting at something. Probably a mouse. It was barely light out, but the morning would prove to be unusually warm, he figured, picking up the rolled newspaper on his front walk. Back inside, he locked the door behind him and flipped through the pages, eyes catching on a headline about two unsolved murders, before he flipped over to the Arts section.

About to settle down at the table, mug in hand, he froze when a loud crash sounded from the hallway. He straightened and took a few steps back, hearing the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. Blinking in a mounting panic, Tom realized his mobile was on his bedside table and there was no landline in the house to make a call from where he was.

Only his bedroom and a guest bathroom were down the hall. It had to be a break in. He searched his small kitchen for a weapon, never actually planning to use it but it would give him courage as he tried to talk the intruder out of whatever he or she wanted to take. These were his things, his hard earned _things_. Just the thought of someone coming in and taking them, blatantly violating his privacy, made him steel himself against whomever might be in that room.

A pained groan followed by another loud crash spurred Tom into action. He grabbed a large knife from its holder on the counter and tiptoed down the hall.

Quiet moans became louder the closer he got to his room.

The door was ajar.

Holding the knife before him, he licked his lips nervously and used his other hand to push the door open.

His mouth parted in surprise.

There was a man half hanging in his window, struggling to bring his leg through the broken frame.

A closer look revealed he was in pain. Very obvious pain.

"What are you doing!" Tom's shock echoed through his bedroom.

The man seized, curling around his middle, as if experiencing some kind of terrible cramp. "Please...," he sobbed. He gave his long leg another tug, but only managed to shake loose more pieces of glass. The tip of his boot was caught on a twisted piece of the window frame and he shook his leg weakly with the effort to dislodge it. His short sleeved shirt and jeans were dirty and torn, and was that...blood?

Tom inched closer, eyes widening as he took in the dark red splotches and peeling patches of skin along the man's shoulders and arms. Even now, tiny blisters rose along his neck and exposed collarbones. He groaned in pain, trying desperately to crawl away from the window, long fingers clawing at the carpet.

"Please...it's rising...I need—."

He pulled himself forward another few inches and then Tom squinted his eyes as the blazing morning rays spilled over the far horizon.

Light spilled into his room as it did every dawn he'd lived there, one of the main reasons he'd bought his home in the first place.

The man screamed, hands scrambling to shield his face.

"Stop! Close them! The drapes! Please! Please..." His words were lost in another guttural scream.

Tom was rooted in place, confused as to why the light caused such a violent reaction in this person. It was only the dawn...

But he burst into movement at the man's desperate pleas, knife dropping to the carpet. The window was broken so he couldn't simply close it. He grabbed the drapes and tore them from their hooks on the wall, tossing them over the man's trembling form in one swift move. They were hardly long enough to cover his legs, which kicked weakly, arms thrashing under the heavy material.

"Hang on!" Tom gasped, taking the man under his arms and pulling him toward his bathroom.

The man was heavy and his body was long. Every tug only gained him a couple of feet, not enough to remove him from the room fast enough. The man's lower body was still left exposed in the bright square shining onto the carpet. Tom could tell that even through his layer of clothes, he was in terrible agony.

"Almost..." Tom wheezed, pulling him through the entrance to the bathroom and kicking his foot to slam the door shut. He tumbled backwards onto the floor, landing hard, elbow smarting on the cold tile.

They lay in darkness, the man collapsed against Tom's heaving chest. Their breaths were loud in that sudden blackness and tremors racked the man's body every few seconds. He was radiating heat. Tom felt it rolling off him in waves.

"Are you okay?"

No answer.

He leaned down and tried peering through the gloom, but he couldn’t see the man’s face. Tom brushed off his rising fear that the man may have just died in his arms. But he couldn't be dead. His chest rose and fell with harsh breaths.

"Listen. You need to tell me how to help you out here. You just broke into my home. I'm still trying to figure out what's wrong. I'm not even sure—."

The tiniest breath. "...Water."

Tom bent close. "You want water?"

"Put me...in water."

And from just under the crack in the door, a sliver of light began to creep in.

Their feet were propped against it, Tom’s bare ones and the other’s soiled leather boots, but the man quickly pulled up his legs, gasping in pain.

"No, no!" He twisted his torso and tried crawling up Tom’s chest, anxious to get away from the invading light.

“Alright. Alright! It’s okay! Just...hold still.” Tom scrambled to his knees and grunted as he lifted the man beneath his arms again and dragged him across the tiled floor. Propping him up against the rim of the bathtub, Tom collapsed back on the toilet lid.

Before he started panicking again, Tom took a towel off the rack on the wall and flung it at the door, where it landed in a twisted heap near its base, smothering the light completely.

The darkness was absolute now. The man gave small little whines of pain, shifting restlessly.

“You need to tell me what’s going on or I’ll call the police.” Tom realized he should have already done that, but that was beside the point.

“Water...”

Sighing, Tom knelt on the floor and turned the knobs to the shower.

Their voices sounded strange in the bathroom, muffled somehow, and foreign, especially his own.

Water gushed from the bottom faucet, but he hesitated before adjusting the temperature.

“Do you want it cold...or hot? Warm?”

There was no answer and Tom was faced with the startling fear that the man might very well have perished in his home. How the hell would he explain that to the authorities?

Reaching a hand across the space between them, Tom touched the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. He paused, heart dropping when he couldn’t detect one. He really was gone.

But then the man jerked and Tom cried out, scrambling back. He squeezed himself into the space between toilet and tub, clutching his chest. His eyes were wide as he tried to see something, anything, but could only make out the faintest outlines.

“Please...” the man moaned, and Tom gaped, pretty sure he had been dead just a moment ago.

He hurried with the water, leaving it just this side of cool. Stoppering the plug, he let the water rise a bit before turning to the man.

“What’s your name?”

A small sound like a sob. “Christopher. Chris...whichever.” His deep voice seemed diminished somewhat when inflected with pain.

“Chris. Okay. Listen, I won’t be able to lift you by myself. I need you to help me. Can you stand?”

A tense moment passed and then a whisper.

“I think so.”

“Good. Take ahold of me and I will lift you as much as I can. Push up with your legs.”

They struggled for a moment. Tom bent as if to scoop him up, Christopher clasping weakly at his shoulders, an arm thrown round the back of Tom’s neck, until he finally got their feet under them.

They stood, panting, and Tom nearly swayed with the weight of him. He was taller than Tom, but he couldn't be sure by how much with his head lolling weakly against his neck.

Tom took a step, guiding them until their knees bumped against porcelain.

“Sit here on the tub. That’s it.” Once Christopher was seated, his head stayed on Tom's shoulder, his nose moving slowly, nudging along Tom’s neck as if looking for something. He moaned again.

Tom paused, trying to catch his eye, ridiculous as they were in the dark. “You want to lie in it with your clothes on?”

He felt Christopher nod, vibrating with fatigue. “Yes, just put me in.”

Tom helped him lift his legs and tried to brace him as much as possible, but he just slid in with an exhausted huff, the water sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the tub. The man’s body was much too long, his legs hanging out of the tub from the crook of his knees. But most of his pain seemed centered in his torso, submerged now.

A groan of pure relief met Tom’s ears. He let the water run a bit more before turning it off.

They sat, or in Christopher’s case lay, in silence.

Tom wished he could see him. From the short, frantic moments in his bedroom, Christopher appeared tall and strong, with well-muscled arms and big hands.

His face had been pressed against the floor, and when the sunlight flowed in, he had covered his head in the effort to protect it. But his skin...images flashed in Tom’s mind; burned red, blisters rising, and the heat of it...Tom touched his chest, remembering how hot Christopher had felt pressed against it. Was he ill? Did he have some kind of skin allergy? Wasn’t there something he read while in school about some babies being born with an allergy to the sun?

What was this man doing breaking into his room, half mad with suffering?

Tom fidgeted, feeling the room start to close in on him. The dark was palpable and he was highly aware of Christopher in the bathtub, lying so still, so quiet. He cleared his throat.

“Did you need me to call you an ambulance or something? Or a doctor?”

“No,” Christopher whispered, so faint, so weak. “I need to...sleep now. Let me sleep. I can’t fight it...any longer.”

Tom started to rise, glad for the chance to leave the bathroom and have a moment to himself. But then he thought of the bright light that would flood in once he opened the door. Gripping the shower curtain, he pulled it closed, extremely uneasy about leaving a man neck deep in water and darkness in his bathroom.

Just as he reached the door, Christopher spoke.

“I will wake...by nightfall...” He took a deep, shaky breath. “You need to be...gone...when I do. And don't come back in. Until I’ve left.”

Tom turned toward the voice but could think of nothing to say to that. Did this stranger really expect him to leave his home? What if it was all a ruse to steal everything? Why couldn’t he just wait until the man was feeling better and walk him out, forget the whole thing, sorry for your troubles and don’t bother me again?

As he opened the door, a column of light fell into the room, slashing across the dark green shower curtain. He blocked most of it with his body, but there was just enough to discern something watching him from the corner of the tub. His heart stilled. Chills erupted over his skin as a bright blue eye peeked around the edge of the curtain, red rimmed with something viscous and thick. And it was enough for Tom to realize that there was something ancient about that gaze, something so ravaged by age that it could only be young again. He had no idea how to pinpoint what was different about the man, Christopher, but he was as Tom had never witnessed or met before.

That eye stared at him for a long moment before finally closing in pain and disappearing behind the plastic once more.

**

Tom raced from the bedroom, barely making it to the hallway before his legs gave out and he stumbled. Sinking down to the floor, he stared at the wall before him, on the other side of which lay a person whom Tom knew had something seriously wrong with him.

He needed to get out of there. But he couldn't just leave his bedroom window broken open as it was. And what had the man— _Christopher,_ Tom reminded himself—said about him needing to be out of the house when he...awoke?

Tom rubbed his face, and stared down in wonder at his shaking hands.

Should he call the police? The man hadn't hurt him. Yes, he'd broken in, but only because he had been desperate to escape the rising sun.

Tom froze.

_I need to sleep now...I can't fight it...any longer._

Tom shook his head, letting it fall back. He hadn't realized he'd started laughing until he heard himself and clapped a hand over his mouth.

It was utterly ridiculous what he was thinking. Not possible. At all.

Shaking away the thought, Tom climbed to his feet to search for the number to his insurance company.

**

"You say a bird did this?"

The man from his insurance agency stepped up to the window and peered out, eyes squinted against the mid-day sun.

"Well, it was rather early," Tom quipped, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. Honestly, he’d panicked slightly when asked what had caused the crash. A bird, how ridiculous. It wasn’t his finest moment. "It could have been some other kind of animal. I wasn’t exactly jumping out the window to confront it, now was I? Terrified the shite out of me this morning. I'd planned on sleeping in, but breaking glass usually discourages that." He shook his head, clearly bewildered. “Whatever it was just crashed in and by the time I realized what was going on, it was gone.”

The man agreed noncommittally and began taking notes of the damage on his clipboard.

“I mean,” Tom said, worried the man didn’t believe him. _Who would, Thomas?_ “Have there been any other reports of this happening to any of my…neighbors?” He was desperate to find out if Christopher's appearance in his bedroom was some kind of isolated incident.

“None so far. But if there is a wild animal roaming these areas, we need to inform Animal Control.”

Tom swallowed, suddenly concerned he’d inadvertently set something into motion that was better left alone.

Before the agent arrived, Tom had cleaned up as best he could, wiping away the streaks of mud on the wall left by Christopher’s boots, checking to see if there was any blood or material from his clothing on the shards of glass. His eyes couldn't help straying to the closed bathroom door, wondering if Christopher could hear them or if he was fast asleep...dead to the world.

 _Stop it_ , he chided himself, smiling at the repairman as he took out a measuring tape. A truck outside had large panes of glass and wood, ready to be cut to size once the inspection was finished. Tom hoped it wouldn't take too long. It was nearly one in the afternoon. He wasn't even sure what time the sun would set. But he was absolutely going to be away from his house come dusk, earthly possessions be damned.

That eerie blue eye flashed in his mind and he blinked quickly to rid himself of the image.

Feeling silly loitering around his house while his window was being fixed, Tom cleaned his kitchen and sorted the mail, a part of his mind still fixated on what lay in his bathtub.

He’d locked the bathroom door before his insurance agent arrived, so Tom wasn’t worried about him stepping in and accidentally discovering Christopher lying blistered and motionless in his bathtub. But he still felt guilty, feeling he was involved in something complicit.

It was almost six in the evening by the time the repairman had him test out the new window and sign some paperwork. Tom was practically tripping over himself as he ushered the man out the door, shaking his hand thankfully, wishing him a good evening, before he was closing the door and sprinting back to his bedroom.

He pressed an ear to the bathroom door, straining to hear movement, breathing, anything on the other side. But it was deathly still.

Tom sighed and glanced at his bare window. The drapes were still in the bathroom and he was not about to go in there to retrieve them. The sky beyond the new panes of glass was steadily darkening, the bright blue beginning to turn pink and orange over the rooftops. There was at least a half hour left of sunlight, maybe forty-five minutes.

Grabbing a duffel bag from his closet, he packed enough things to stay overnight at a hotel, pajamas, extra jeans and pants, some shirts. All of his toiletries were in the bathroom, but he could pick up a complimentary toothbrush and razor at the reception desk. Stuffing the last of it in and zipping the bag closed, Tom gave his room a look around, eyes finally settling on the bathroom, where from within he could swear he heard the telltale sound of skin sliding against porcelain.

Grabbing his mobile, he ran from the room and out the front door, starting his small car in a hurry. Pulling out of his space, he sped through the city, eyes on his rearview mirror, watching the fading sun slip beneath the horizon.

**

After checking in and finding his room on the sixth floor, Tom locked the door and settled back against it with a sigh. The sun had set. Christopher would have left his home by now. At least he hoped. Depositing his brand new toothbrush and razor by the bathroom sink, Tom continued further into the room, dropping his bag on the floor by the single bed.

He was exhausted. It seemed like his adrenaline level had been turned top notch all day since discovering Christopher in his room writhing in pain, until the window repairman finally left and he was able to gather his few belongings. That small moment of terror stayed with him during the drive through the city. The moment the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, imagining his bathroom door yawning open with a creak, Christopher lurking somewhere inside, waiting.

Intent on forgetting the whole thing, Tom stripped and started the shower. Hot water poured on his stiff limbs until he relaxed enough to wash the rest of his body.

After he dried off, he put his cotton pajama bottoms on and slipped under the covers, falling asleep almost immediately, his last thought that he’d forgotten to eat again.

**

It was dark when he woke up hours later, even though he knew he'd left the bedside lamp on. Tom held still, his senses suddenly humming to attention.

He wasn't alone. He knew it with every primeval instinct in his body.

Heart thudding painfully in his chest, he pushed the covers from his face, peeking out, but saw nothing except the wall and small hallway that led to the bathroom. He couldn't see behind him, where he knew there was the door leading to the balcony, an armchair and a small table.

Gathering his courage, Tom let the blanket fall from his body as he sat and turned slowly, eyes rising to the table where a figure sat at one of the chairs.

“It’s you,” he whispered, trying in vain to slow his heart rate.

In the dim moonlight filtering through the balcony curtains, Tom saw Christopher’s curious gaze, the tense way he held his body folded in the chair, as if he might at any moment sprint from the room.

“It’s you,” replied Christopher, voice deeper than Tom expected now that it wasn’t shrouded in pain.

Tom looked around, cataloguing his escape route. “How did you find me?”

Christopher looked down at that, the sharp blue of his eyes obscured by the darkness of the room. He fidgeted with his hands and finally turned to look out the window. Tom got the distinct impression that Christopher was ashamed. “I followed you.”

“Followed me?” Tom deadpanned. “You told me to leave my own home before you ‘woke’ up and I did that. Now you’re saying that you followed me? To a place that you had no idea I would ever go to, I might add.”

Christopher smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Tom tried his best to suppress the shiver that crept up his spine, and failed miserably. He swallowed thickly, eyes widening slightly when Christopher turned at the sound.

Tapping the bridge of his nose once, Christopher stared at him. “I followed you.”

There seemed to be something he was missing. Why did none of this make sense? Was he suspended in some kind of prolonged, hyper-aware dream?

He cleared his throat, deciding not to enable what he thought might be a serial killer or worse, and worked his best on appearing calm. He searched for a clock, starting to inch his way toward the other side of the bed. “What time is it?”

“Just after three in the morning.”

He nodded, sliding from the bed and walking toward the bathroom. “Well, then. I don’t know exactly why you’re here but I am kindly requesting that you leave now. I’m sure there are plenty of other exciting things happening tonight somewhere in Lon—.”

He gasped when he felt the air displaced and then Christopher was right in front of him. Falling back against the wall, Tom put his hands up, warding off the slowly approaching man.

“Wait. Just—w-wait!” He swallowed, not missing how Christopher’s eyes glanced down to his throat, where his pulse was beating wildly. The look on his face was one of pure... _ravishment_. “Look, I don’t know what you want or why you’re here. But I helped you yesterday and I didn’t call the police and I left when you told me to and now I want—I just want...”

His words died on his tongue as Christopher took a final step, pressing Tom into the wall with his chest.

“You saved me yesterday,” Christopher murmured, leaning in and running his nose along Tom’s jaw.

“I...I didn’t—.”

“You did. I’m sorry if I gave you a scare. But I was dying. And you saved me.”

With Christopher pressed close, Tom could feel the significant difference in his body temperature. He had been burning up the last time, but now his skin was only a degree or two cooler than Tom’s own body. His frantic eyes took in the smooth skin on his shoulders and neck, no peeling or blisters. How was that possible?

Tom pulled back as far as he could go, but Christopher had a good two inches on him and outweighed him by at least two or three stone. And when he took Tom’s jaw in his fingers, angling his head away to bare his throat, Tom really began to struggle. Pushing his hands against Christopher’s chest, he pleaded, his voice breaking, to stop, to please wait, they could talk about his, why couldn’t he—

And then a bright flash of fire in his vein. He realized with stunning clarity that Christopher had actually latched himself onto his neck, that his teeth were embedded in his skin, that none of his efforts to fight him off were working.

“Please, no!” he whispered, even as the pull of blood from those two pinpricks in his neck had started a deep coiling in his abdomen, a burning need springing to life in his limbs. “No!” he said again, bewildered as to why his body was responding like this. And then Christopher moaned, widening his mouth, blood dripping from between his lips to sliver down Tom’s neck. He shifted his hips to press against Tom’s crotch and Tom gasped, fingers tightening on the muscled arms pinning him to the wall. Grinding on him, Christopher’s thirst didn’t slow and as quickly as Tom’s arousal had flared up, it started to wane, the pain in his neck blinding him suddenly. His fingers lost their grip on Christopher’s shoulders and he tried lifting a knee to plant against Christopher, to push him off. But he couldn’t. His leg was too heavy.

“Stop. Stop it!” The frailty of his voice scared him. Turning his head, he tried dislodging Christopher, but he simply planted a wide hand on Tom’s face, keeping his neck exposed. “I can’t...you’ll kill me...Please!” His legs gave out and Christopher caught him in his arms.

This must have gotten through to him because he yanked his teeth away, tearing skin in the process. Tom didn’t have the energy to wince. Black was creeping in on his vision. He was hardly conscious when Christopher released him in a hurry, crumpling to the floor in a bloody heap. Sobbed curses and a loud crash as hangers rained down from the closet made Tom crack his eyes open.

Christopher was on his backside on the floor, scrambling away, wide eyes on Tom. There was fear in those eyes, a deep regret, like a sorrow he’d known over and over. Oddly, Tom narrowed in on the fact that his eyes weren’t as frightening as he once thought, remembering how they’d looked peering up at him from his bathtub. There was no red lining anymore. They were bright and vivid and full of tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I...I-I drank before coming here. I did, I swear! But I can’t seem to—it gets too strong for me. And I just _have to_ —please. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just needed to see you again. I’m sorry.”

He turned and jumped to his feet, long legs a blur as he sprinted to the balcony and disappeared through the curtains.

And as Tom lay there, wheezing painfully, he finally closed his eyes to the fatigue pulling at his mind, realizing with a heavy heart that he had been right about Christopher all along.

**

Sunlight in his eyes. Tom blinked them open, squinting. He lifted his head and then hissed, pain throbbing through his neck and into his chest.

But rather than seeing the unfamiliar furniture and layout of the hotel room he’d rented, he was back in his own bedroom. The drapes for his new window had been hung up haphazardly with thumbtacks, but a sliver of light peeked in from one corner, blinding him.

Taking care not to move his neck very much, Tom sat, feeling like a stranger in his own home. His eyes caught on the small table next to his bed, where an assortment of bottles of B12 vitamins and iron supplements had been left, along with a first aid kit and a glass of orange juice.

Feeling along his neck revealed that someone—Christopher, probably—had patched up his wound with a bandage. He must have gone back for him at the hotel and brought him home.

A note on the closed bathroom door had him struggling to his feet in a second. But vertigo flooded over him and the room swayed as he fell back to the bed. His breaths were heavy as nausea rolled through his stomach, hands clutching at his belly to sooth it.

Swallowing back two of the B12 vitamins with the glass of orange juice, Tom squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain his equilibrium.

Moving much more slowly, he inched his way to the bathroom and snatched the sticky note from the door.

_I’m in here. Don’t come in. I don’t want to hurt you again. But I needed a place to stay. It’s not safe for me out there. I will explain tonight. Head to a public place. Leave before sunset and I will find you. ~C._

Well, then.

“You know, this doesn’t make it okay, what you did. You hear me!” He pounded on the door, kicking it with the ball of his foot.

A growl rose up on the other side, faint, far enough away to only be coming from the bathtub.

Tom stepped back slowly, his heart thudding in his chest, making him feel even weaker. It seemed suddenly too big for his body, this huge organ working harder than usual to pump blood for him. He needed to calm down.

The growling stopped and then everything was quiet.

He crumpled the note and tossed it on his desk.

Muttering, he found his mobile in the duffel bag he’d taken to the hotel. It was just before noon. Putting it to charge, he looked around for a clean pair of clothes. He grabbed the first aid kit last.

Slipping into the guest bathroom, he was startled to see flecks of dried blood on his naked chest and torso. The bandage seemed like it had been applied in haste, the tape torn crooked and sloppy. Peeling it away with a grimace, Tom stared at his neck, at the huge bruise rising along his skin from earlobe to collarbones. And right along his artery were two deep puncture wounds. But it was the other half-circle teeth marks that alarmed Tom on top of it all. It seemed that Christopher had bitten him repeatedly using his whole mouth before Tom had finally collapsed and Christopher let him go.

He shuddered, recalling the way his heart had thudded so loudly in his ears, beating slower and slower. He could have killed me, he thought, as another wave of nausea hit him. He groaned and sank onto the toilet seat.

Once settled, he managed to fill the tub with hot water and climbed in, lowering himself until he was submerged up to his battered neck. He lay there, eyes drifting closed, startling awake after a few long minutes. Before he accidentally drowned, he cleaned himself with a bar of soap, limbs as heavy as lead, leaving the water a rusty brown by the end of it.

Standing before the mirror again, he applied some ointment to the bite marks and replaced a clean bandage over the wound.

Then he made his way to the kitchen, desperate for food.

**

As Christopher requested, Tom headed out to a cafe in central London. He took the Underground, half wanting his scent, or however the hell Christopher tracked him, to get so mixed with the odors and smells of the city and the people living in it, that he would be lost in the surging metropolis.

Snagging a table in the back of an ordinary and featureless tea shop, Tom ordered a cappuccino and played with his phone, his eyes darting to the window every few minutes, mindful of the sun’s progress across the sky. It wasn’t long before street lights flickered on and darkness settled over the streets.

It took longer than he expected, but eventually Christopher walked in, taller than nearly everyone, _looming_ is how Tom would describe it. He was wearing the same torn shirt and jeans as when he’d broken into his bedroom, his boots still smeared with mud. Tom wondered vaguely about the state of his bathroom.

As Christopher’s eyes locked onto his, Tom’s heart did a strange little dance, half fear, half curiosity. The cafe had better light and he got a good look at the man who had almost killed him. He had dark blond hair pulled up in a short ponytail and his smile, while still unnerving, was shy and kind. Or appeared to be.

He crossed the room, ignoring all others but Tom.

As he pulled out a chair to sit opposite him, Tom spoke.

“You almost killed me.”

Christopher sighed and ran both hands down his face. “I know,” he said, voice muffled behind his fingers.

“What the fuck are you and how do I get rid of you?”

He opened his eyes, blue just as Tom remembered, rimmed with thick dark lashes. “You don’t know yet?”

Tom blushed. Of course he _knew_ , but he wasn’t about to go spewing wild—accurate—accusations in a public place.

“How is that possible?” he said instead, fingers laced tightly together.

Christopher looked away, but not before his gaze landed on Tom’s bandage, barely concealed beneath his knitted jumper. It hadn’t been wide enough to hide the bruising, but well, people would already think what they wanted.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Tom bristled. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?” His whispers were getting louder and he sat back, glancing around, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

Christopher narrowed his eyes at him and Tom swallowed.

“This was done to me, okay? The person who made me this way went and got himself killed, fucking reckless twit, and now I’m alone. We’d been holed up in an empty building for a week before I was chased out. The night I broke into your house was the first night I couldn’t find shelter that was dark enough.” His eyes widened. “I was desperate.” He poked a finger down on the table top. “And another thing. Don’t ever kick at the door of someone who is sleeping.”

Tom’s pulse jumped and Christopher’s eyes settled on it, before turning away, licking his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered. “But I’m still a bit outraged that you used my neck as some kind of chew toy.”

Christopher sighed. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t want to hurt you. But I have these...” he paused, touching his chest, “huge urges. And I can’t—I don’t know how to control them. Jones was supposed to show me, but his death was a bit...unexpected.” He paused. “To be entirely honest, you were the first person I was able to...stop with. And I think it’s only because I really, really didn’t want you dead. The other people, my hunger was too great.”

Tom met his eyes. “Wait. You’re out there _feeding_ on people?” He looked around nervously. “And you’re, what? Draining them?” He sat back, suddenly recalling the headlines he’d been about to read the morning Christopher crashed into his life. Unsolved murders. Not entirely unheard of in London, but he had a sick suspicion the man across from him might be responsible for these particular ones.

Christopher was getting more and more fidgety. “Look. I didn’t want to kill anyone. But I don’t know myself when I’m doing... _that_. It’s this terrible...thirst...and—and I don’t know how to _be_ anymore. It’s like a wild blur when the hunger hits.” He ran a hand over his hair, Tom’s eyes catching on how the straight silky strands fell back into their messy place. “I didn’t ask for this. You don’t know how many times I’ve considered staying out when the sun rises, to end it all. But every morning, this _instinct_ kicks in and I am driven mad with the need for night, to get somewhere dark. The other day I even slept underground. I buried myself in someone’s garden. Dug up radishes and cabbages and didn’t come out until nearly midnight, the thirst blinding my senses.”

Tom sat gaping, connecting Christopher’s muddy shoes to his day spent in a damn garden. Absurd.

"And I fed before going to see you last night. I did. Twice." Tom cringed. "But the sun did something to my body that needed _more_ , I think." Christopher stopped, a frustrated frown coming over his brows. "To heal, maybe. I’m not sure."

Repeating Christopher’s earlier gesture, Tom rubbed his hands over his face, exhausted. His neck ached and his mind felt sluggish.

Watching his every move, Chris bent to catch Tom’s eye. “You are in pain.”

Tom laughed sharply. Unbelievable.

“Yeah. You could say that.” He stood and pulled his wallet out and left a few notes on the table.

Christopher sat back. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I’m beat. I need to sleep and let my body replenish its recently diminished blood supply.”

Christopher had the good grace to blush and looked down.

“I hope I at least tasted good,” Tom said dryly, about to turn away.

Christopher snatched his wrist and Tom looked down at him with wide eyes.

Meeting his gaze, Christopher leaned forward to sniff along Tom’s forearm. Raising his eyes, filled with something heavy like worship, he whispered, “The best.”

Tom was about to shake his arm loose when Christopher tightened his hold. “Your name. Please.”

Something in the way his voice sounded just a shade lost, so _young_ despite Christopher looking to be around Tom’s own age, made him pause.

Rather than cause a scene by yanking his arm away, he said, “My name is Tom.”

Face opening up in gratitude, Christopher blinked up at him. And then because curiosity got the better of him, Tom said, “Your eyes. They’re different. They were...scarier. Before.”

Christopher swallowed. “The sun was destroying me. Burning me from within. I was probably quite the sight. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It seems you didn’t mean to do a lot of things, Chris.” Tom tugged his arm gently and Christopher let go, his long tapered fingers sliding along his skin. He watched as Tom walked out of the cafe and into the night.

**

Tom stood in his bathroom and took in the damage. There were still drying puddles of water on the floor, and the tub only had long streaks of mud from Christopher’s boots, but luckily, no blood. With how badly his skin was burned, Tom thought there would have been more of a mess.

Still feeling weak from blood loss, he moved a mop over the bathroom floor in slow swipes, gathering as much water as he could before he collapsed back against the wall, breathing heavy.

“Tomorrow,” he said, letting the mop handle clank heavily on the sink.

It was after one in the morning when he stumbled to bed, having downed another glass of orange juice and two B12 vitamins. 

A knocking woke him several hours later. His room was still dark, but instinct, and the light glimmer of grey cast over his walls, told him it wouldn’t be for long.

Knocking again.

“Wha—?” He leaned up on forearms, blurry eyes looking for the source. And then they landed on his window, haphazardly covered with his thumbtacked curtains. Lifting himself from the bed, he fumbled across the room and peeked out the corner of the drapes.

Christopher stood there, facing the area behind him, as if checking for followers. But when he turned, his blue eyes caught Tom’s and he placed a hand on the clean windowpane.

“Please,” he said, his voice sounding hollow from outside.

He was about to say no, not a chance, go away, but there was something about the crinkles around Christopher’s eyes, the panic that was close to setting in, the worry weighing heavy on his brows, that made Tom pause.

“You won’t bite me?” he asked, his hand coming up to touch the bandage on his neck.

Christopher shook his head adamantly. “I just fed.”

Noting how there wasn’t much of a certainty that he wouldn’t bite him if he hadn’t fed, Tom unlatched the window, muttering under his breath. He was thankful somewhere in the back of his mind that Christopher hadn’t just crashed through the newly installed glass pane like last time.

The big man crawled in and Tom locked the window again. Christopher’s eyes scanned the room before falling on Tom.

“Thank you,” he said, closing the distance in two giant steps and bending close.

Tom’s entire body went rigid, fear and lack of strength making an escape nearly impossible. But instead of latching on to his neck, Christopher took Tom’s head in both hands and pressed their lips together, close-mouthed and hard.

Tom’s eyes went wide with shock, but before he could make a single move, Christopher released him, stepping back slowly, hands up. Slipping into the bathroom, his blue eyes held Tom’s for a moment, and then the door closed with a quiet click.

Tom sank to the bed with an exhausted breath, stomach in a tight knot.

Slipping under the covers again, he lay in the murky darkness, eyes on the bathroom door, feeling along the edge of his lips with trembling fingers.

**

Waking late that morning, Tom was immensely relieved it was Sunday and he had the rest of the day to recover, get some food in him, sleep some more.

He eyed the bathroom door. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel as uncomfortable knowing Christopher was asleep in there. Maybe it was the whole bloodshot eye and peeling skin thing that had unsettled him the most. With just a bit of blood, Christopher healed up and looked almost...normal. If Tom had passed Christopher on the street, the only thing noteworthy about him would be his considerable size, not that much taller than Tom himself. But much bigger. And his strength. And that smile. And his hands. And those eyes.

He shook his head. Regardless, he preferred eyes not to be bloodshot and filmy and well, terrifying.

Taking the bottle of vitamins Christopher left for him, he used the guest bathroom and brushed his teeth before heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Or lunch, actually. The day would have been perfect to take a run. But just walking to the sofa sapped his energy. He hadn’t even known he’d fallen asleep until he was waking up to a dark room and Christopher looming over him.

Tom cried out, scrambling up the sofa, curling into the corner. “What the hell!” His head pounded a furious beat.

Christopher leaned back. He was crouched on the floor by the couch, black jeans pulled tight around the muscle of his thighs. “I could sense you immediately after I woke up. I knew you were in the house still.”

Tom pushed a hand through his hair, his heart beating erratically. Christopher’s eyes, still beautiful, flicked down to his throat, and it reminded Tom so much of their painful encounter at the hotel, that Tom’s hand slid up to cover his neck, breath shallow.

“Is this, um...Is this another thing you’ve found out about yourself?”

Christopher nodded. “I think so. I might be able to find you anywhere in the city if I tried hard enough.”

Tom swallowed hard.

“Do you want to try?” As if the idea were sudden in his mind, Christopher sat up, wide smile surprising Tom. Tom squinted. There were no fangs. How did he...?

Christopher widened his mouth and two sharp incisors sprang out, gleaming.

Tom gasped and scooted back another inch. “Jesus. Those are...”

“Sharp?” Christopher smiled and it was eerie and magnificent all at once. He traced the fine edge of his teeth with the pad of his thumb, frowning thoughtfully. “I found this out too. With my first feed, they just popped out. I’ve learned to control them. Well, I'm trying to,” he said softly, both remembering the hotel incident. “Sometimes, I can’t—they just pop out.”

Tom nodded, a bit afraid still. He couldn’t believe those teeth had actually pierced his neck.

“So can we try it?”

“Try what?”

“Finding you in the city. I feel it's an ability I might be able to strengthen...if I practice.”

"Uh," Tom said, casting his gaze around, "Well..." He swallowed. “Have you eaten?”

“As soon as I woke up. I sensed you and then dragged myself through the window and out. I just got back.”

Christopher moved closer, his hand reaching out slowly to touch Tom's ankle. His skin wasn't cold exactly. It was room temperature, and Tom was oddly relieved at that.

"I wish you weren't afraid of me," Christopher admitted quietly, eyes searching his in the darkening room. It was well past sundown. “I can’t tell you how much I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

"I'm sorry if I can't help it. After you stalked me and nearly killed me and all."

Christopher looked down at that, still ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Tom. You have to believe me...that I never meant to hurt you. But," he said, scooting closer still. "I wasn't lying when I said you were the best. Even those I've tasted after you can't compare."

Tom inclined his head, curious. "And just how many people have you...tasted?"

"Dozens."

"And—and you killed them all?"

Christopher shifted, uncomfortable. "Well. Not exactly. I killed all of them my first few nights. Jones didn’t seem to really care. But I've been learning to recognize when they are close to death. I've been able to stop with the last few. I leave them unconscious."

"So they might be dead."

"Well," Christopher shrugged. "Maybe."

Tom sighed, strangely at ease with Christopher's hand on his ankle, which he'd yet to move. If anything, he'd tightened his hold, his long thumb stroking Tom's instep.

"Okay," he finally agreed.

Christopher straightened. "Okay?"

"I need to get out for some fresh air anyway. A walk through the city would do me good. I don't like feeling so sedentary. I suppose you could...track me, for practice."

The grin that split Christopher's face was gorgeous, and Tom found himself staring.

"Thank you, Tom."

"Let me just get dressed and then I'll head out."

And so with Christopher trailing his steps, Tom went into his bedroom and picked out some jeans and a light sweater. Showering in the guest bathroom, he dressed and combed his hair, gathering his wallet and keys.

"I'll wait here while you drive into the city. Park your car somewhere and then go wherever you like from there. Anywhere," Christopher said, standing outside with Tom.

He nodded and made to step away when Christopher opened his mouth, hesitating.

Tom waited, keys in hand.

"Can I...touch you, one more time?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "How?" A flashback to that morning came to him, of Christopher kissing him. He half surprised himself by hoping it would be that kind of touch.

"Like this," Christopher said, stepping close and folding his arms around Tom in a slow hug, a cautious hug, tight and full. "Just like this." After a small hesitation, Tom's arms came up and hugged Christopher's waist.

Releasing each other at the same time, Tom blinked up at Christopher, before walking backward toward his car, slipping in and driving away.

**

Parking near his office building, Tom took the Underground to a stop near South Bank, the great big circle lit in blue and white. Forty-five minutes had passed since he'd left his house.

But just as he was convincing himself that Christopher had lost his trail, he turned and there he was standing across the road from him, a street lamp casting his blond hair aglow. Smiling wide, Christopher touched his nose briefly and then vanished. Tom, blinking fast, turned this way and that, but there was no sign of the man.

He hopped on the Underground again, this time stopping at a bakery near Big Ben, and bought himself a sugared pastry and coffee. He ate on the patio outside, a newspaper folded before him, hoping Christopher wasn't cheating and simply following Tom from place to place without losing him first.

But somehow Tom didn't think so. Christopher seemed too excited about learning more about his abilities to cheat.

"Any good?" a voice said next to him and Tom startled, sloshing coffee on the tabletop.

Christopher sat beside him with the biggest shit eating grin. Tom hadn't the vaguest idea how the hell he'd done that.

"You did that on purpose," he hissed, blotting the spilled liquid with a napkin.

"You're very beautiful when startled," Christopher said. "I mean, you're always beautiful. But um." He cleared his throat, cheeks darkening in the pale yellow light from the street lamp. "I'm just gonna—." And then he was gone.

Tom sat still for a moment staring at the empty seat next to him, the newspaper edges rustling in Christopher's wake. He finished his pastry quietly and sipped what remained of his lukewarm drink. For his last stop, Tom visited his favorite bookstore. It took the longest to get to because it was across the city, and he was pleased to discover it was still open on a Sunday night.

Perusing the shelves, he selected a few titles he'd been eyeing and paid for them at the front register. It was as soon as he stepped out into the street that he felt a sharp breeze and then Christopher was hugging him, the force of his embrace lifting Tom briefly before he settled against that big body.

"Found you," he said against his ear and Tom shivered, not entirely out of fright. Because he was definitely startled, eyes wide. But once that deep voice rumbled over him, vibrating through his chest, he felt a measure of relief that it was Christopher and not someone else trying to assault him. 

"Found me," he whispered, returning the hug with a small sigh.

Christopher pulled back and placed his hand over the bandage on Tom's neck. And as Tom stiffened, thinking the worst, Christopher pulled him closer and kissed him.

Unlike before, when Tom had been too scared to even close his eyes and properly kiss the man back, Tom let himself sag against Christopher, just a little bit, eyes fluttering shut, his mouth opening slowly, their tongues touching and winding tentatively.

Christopher drew back a moment later, blue eyes sharp on Tom's face, no doubt noticing the blush he felt creeping up his cheeks or the breathlessness, the unfocused gaze.

Tom cleared his throat and stepped away quickly.

"I—um. I don't...I—."

Christopher just smiled and took his hand.

"Come on. You need to sleep. You work tomorrow."

Holding Christopher's hand was just as Tom imagined it would be. It was big and calloused, with fingers thicker than his. He noted that Christopher liked to lace their fingers together rather than just cup palms.

Back at the house, Tom added his new books to the bookshelf in the living room and then made his way to the kitchen to prepare himself a meal.

"You can't have food?" he asked, buttering up some bread for a grilled cheese. In another pot he set to heat some chicken soup.

Christopher, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, shook his head.

Tom nodded quietly, thinking this over.

"You're Australian?" he asked, already having noted the accent.

Christopher hummed. "Yeah. Haven't been in a few years, though. I was working in a kitchen with a friend these last few months. Washing dishes, taking rotations with the cook. Easy work, nothing too demanding. First time in London. I didn't really know my way around. Still don’t, actually.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I have no idea what happened to him.”

"You said you were chased out of the place you were staying before?" Tom asked, pouring his soup into a bowl and wrapping the grilled cheese in a napkin.

"It was up north. Jones had us holed up there. It wasn't...the best situation. I was only recently turned. I was confused and scared. And so hungry. He was...um. He was a rough one. Maybe thought my size meant I was mean or something. Like him." He looked down. "I was out on my own when the other vamps got him. I liked to sneak away. I didn't like him very much. But he was so much stronger than me. Wanted me there always. But that night I snuck out and still was not as aware of the dawn as I am now. Jones was back at our place when the others killed him. And I felt it, Tom. The moment he died. Like my heart burst in my chest. The pain was that great. I found that garden and dug myself in. I've been wandering ever since."

"And that was a few days ago?"

Christopher nodded.

"And he just...took you?"

"Yes. I was heading to the flat I was renting with my buddy, the one from the kitchen. And he took me. Snatched me up from the street. Like nothing. It was nothing for him.” He shrugged and turned away. “I don't want to talk about it." He straightened, tucking his hands into his pockets, smile apologetic, but reserved.

Tom wondered what that must have been like for Christopher. He wasn’t a small man. Probably used to being stronger than everyone else, never feeling physically threatened by anyone before. And to just be taken like that. Forced. What had that struggle been like? Fighting for his life and losing, waking up to this?

He swallowed the last of his grilled cheese and was picking up the spoon to sip at the soup, when it slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the floor, shiny flecks of soup pin wheeling over the tile. He bent to retrieve it but then winced, hand clutching at his neck. The bite wounds pulled tight with his movement and he felt warmth flood the bandage.

Before he could react, he was suddenly hauled upright and pushed up against the counter, bowl of soup skidding, spilling messily. Christopher stood before him, eyes nearly black. Cringing, Tom drew back from that dark gaze, from the hard grip on his shoulders.

"Please no," he gasped, pushing at him, feeling his head swim. Christopher, nostrils flaring, was staring at his bandage, which Tom imagined was probably blooming with color, like the petals of some fragrant rose. "Please don't," he pleaded, already angling back, trying to distance himself.

Christopher groaned and gripped Tom’s waist as he pressed his hips forward.

Tom's wild and frantic mind was able to make sense of the bulge against his crotch and he fell quickly still, breaths short and shallow.

"Please," he said again, eyes half lidded, fingers trembling on the biceps before him. "Chris, please…don’t."

Black eyes zoomed to his and then blinked fast. Before Tom could draw another shaky breath, the grip on him disappeared and Christopher was gone from before him. Tom collapsed back against the counter, legs trembling, breaths harsh and loud in the empty kitchen. He moaned and flexed his hand over his neck, feeling the bandage sponge against his skin, overfilled with liquid.

Food roiling in his stomach, Tom stumbled down the hall and grabbed the first aid kit from the guest bathroom before slipping into his room and locking the door. He didn't think one bolted piece of wood would keep Christopher out, but he also suspected that Christopher was no longer in his house.

The sorrow in his eyes, blackened by whatever form of bloodlust took hold of him after Tom's wound broke open, the regret and apology in them, still gave Tom pause. He really did seem adverse to the new and dangerous instincts that overtook him, as evidenced by his sudden departure. How terrible, Tom thought, peeling the soaked bandage from his skin, grimacing at the painful pull of it. To have your original personality displaced by something more savage, something unwanted and feral.

He rubbed at the excess blood with antibacterial wipes and then replaced a clean bandage with tape. Falling back on the mattress, Tom let the exhaustion he'd been trying to staunch flow over him, the ceiling winking in and out of his sight, until finally with a pained sigh, he passed out entirely.

**

Two weeks passed. Tom didn't see a single sign of Christopher's presence near him or his home. But he sometimes felt that tingle of recognition, a soft whisper at the back of his neck, the feeling of being watched.

He continued with work, struggling through the first few days after the weekend Chris drank from him. He could do very little about the bruising on his neck, apart from wearing scarves. Which he did in the mornings. But while at his desk, the collars of his button up shirts weren't high enough to conceal the dark purple discoloration of his skin. A few comments were tossed his way about the wild weekend he must have had, but Tom brushed them all aside with a somber telling of how he'd been mugged. That shut everyone up fairly quickly and no more comments were made again, apart from how very sorry they were to hear about his misfortune.

This suited Tom just fine. He preferred to keep to himself, even if he was perfectly happy to share a laugh in the break room, speak niceties about how everyone's weekend went, congratulate whosever’s son or daughter just had a birthday, offer lament at an unexpected passing.

He thought about Christopher a lot, about this sudden and glaring knowledge of a creature he once thought was safe in the annals of mythology and legend. It wasn’t unusual for him to pause in the middle of his work and wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Staring around at his coworkers, Tom questioned if any of them might know of this frightening underworld. If any of them had been accosted by a terrifying stranger, if their whole world hadn’t been flipped topsy turvy, as his had. Others had to know, right? This was something that had to be known. How could such a secret be kept?

Because they would all think him insane if he so much as mentioned a single detail of that weekend. So he kept his lips shut and worked on, blatantly avoiding thinking of the man who had fallen in through his window.

At home, he valued his privacy, his evenings in his backyard, tea by the front window, book open on his lap. He liked the quiet and the calm. He liked the city and the country, either depending on his mood.

But his evenings had seemed tense, of late. His strength had returned gradually. He felt less dizzy and had gained an appetite again. It was all a bit strange, though. He would drive home from work, eyes on the rearview mirror, peering, surprising himself by wondering where Christopher might be. If he was safe. Taking second glances at any man with a blond ponytail, pointless as he always caught sight of them while the sun was still out, Tom still looked, half expectant.

He lay in bed at night, eyes on the window, or straying to the bathroom door, which he always kept closed, sometimes letting his mind imagine that it remained occupied rather than empty, how he might feel if Christopher had continued to stay there every day. Or he'd trace the edge of his lips, remembering the feel of the two times Christopher had kissed him, the second time just as surprising as the first.

And then nothing. For days. For weeks. Just gone.

It was a warm Thursday night the third week that found Tom slipping from the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. The tub was long since cleaned, its former occupant missing but not forgotten.

When the knocks came, he almost dismissed them as some noises farther off, maybe from another house or some animal fussing about his yard—.

He froze, eyes wide on his closed bathroom door, wondering if he'd imagined them.

But then the knocks came again and Tom hurried into the main bedroom, flinging aside the curtains.

Christopher stood there, dark shirt and leather jacket stained with dirt and grime, black jeans torn at the knees. His hair was up in a quick ponytail, crumbles of mud sprinkling from it.

"Tom," he said, voice hollow, hands lifting to press at the glass.

Vaguely wondering at the early hour, Tom opened the window and stepped aside as Chris crawled in. Locking it again and drawing the shades, they stared at each other, saying nothing.

"I'm sorry," Christopher finally whispered.

"What for?"

"For coming here again."

"It's not dawn yet."

"I know."

Christopher’s eyes drifted low and Tom looked down, suddenly conscious of his naked torso, moist towel around his waist. "Let me, um. Let me change." He walked to his bureau and pulled out some sweatpants and a loose shirt. He ducked into the bathroom and threw his clothes on, stepping out again to find Christopher right where he’d left him.

"I was worried about you."

Christopher blinked. "You were?"

"When you left so suddenly. And then no word from you for weeks. I just...I kept wondering if you were okay. If you were safe. I mean, those other vampires..."

"I left because I almost drank from you again. And you were still recovering from the last time. And I couldn't. I just had to get out of here. I'm sorry." His gaze flicked over Tom’s throat. “You’re better?”

Tom self-consciously touched his neck, only recently healed of its wound. There were two pockmarked scars over his artery, perfectly circled. They blended in well with his skin, otherwise he was sure he’d have gotten more strange stares.

Christopher followed the movement of his hand and looked down, lips pressed tight.

They lapsed into silence again. Tom motioned to Christopher's clothes. "Sleeping in gardens again?" 

Christopher looked down, a small smile on his face. "Yes. Close by."

Tom frowned. "Close by? Not the same garden?"

There was a strange, warm look in the blue eyes staring at him, a small acceptance of something Tom couldn't identify. "No. Not the same garden."

Tom couldn’t take his eyes off him. He realized with sudden clarity that he’d missed Christopher, that his worry for him stemmed not only from concern about Christopher’s well-being, but also from this simple and obvious truth. He cleared his throat. "I'd offer you something, but..."

"No. That's okay. This is turning out to be more awkward than I imagined." Christopher laughed quietly and ran a hand over his hair, more specks of dirt raining down.

Tom gestured with his hand to the door. "Come into the living room. I was just about to grab a snack before bed."

He could feel Christopher behind him in the hallway, his presence big and heavy, like how a warm blanket would feel in the middle of the night when alone and cold.

“What have you been up to?” he asked, to clear the silence. He pulled down a box of cereal and some milk, pouring himself a bowl. He felt a bit self-conscious eating too much in front of Christopher, as he could no longer partake in solid food. But Tom forgot to eat lunch and his stomach was growling. They sat at the dining table.

“Staying out of sight mostly. Trying not to attract attention.”

“I imagine that might be difficult,” Tom chuckled, swallowing a spoonful.

Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”

Blanching, Tom coughed quietly and gulped. “I mean—Well, you’re very attractive. And so tall,” he finished quietly, sinking lower in his seat.

Christopher smiled. “You think I’m attractive?”

Tom shrugged and looked down at his cereal. “And tall,” he clarified lamely, feeling stupid.

“You’re tall too.”

“Not as tall. And not as big,” he said, gesturing to all of Chris. “It’s quite impressive.”

Something wicked crept into Christopher’s gaze and he cocked his head at Tom. “We haven’t had the chance to find that out yet, have we?”

Tom froze, sweaty hands gripping the bowl against his chest.

“Although, from what I’ve felt a couple of times…you’re quite big yourself,” Christopher said, eyes drifting lower to Tom’s lap. Tom blushed and dropped his gaze, feeling his pulse jump.

“There it is,” Christopher murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head up, as if listening.

"What?"

Christopher smiled. "Your heart."

“You can hear it?” Tom whispered, sitting forward slightly.

“Mm. Nearly every beat, which sort of fades into the background after a while. Blends in, like how our noses are always in our line of sight, but our brains choose to ignore it? But when you’re excited or nervous or afraid, your heartbeat jumps so beautifully. So sweet and pure and _clean_. You should hear some hearts, Tom. Riddled with disease and decay and just...sluggish. Struggling against a lifestyle it’s not meant to support. But yours...yours is not like that.” He touched a hand to his own chest, fingers tightening over a well-developed pectoral. He said so softly, "Mine no longer beats."

Tom bit his lip, attuned to the sadness in Christopher's voice. "That must be strange for you."

"Not always. I don't notice it until I'm forced to. Like when I'm very still. The silence. The emptiness just in here," he said, tapping his chest. "Or when I'm wherever I manage to find to sleep during the day. In the moments before I feel the sleep pull at me. I can hear the silence. No beat. No movement. And it's so unnerving, Tom."

Tom took that in. And then, “Have you always known where I am? These past few weeks?”

Christopher nodded, his foot starting a quick, distracted bounce. “I have. As soon as I wake, I’m able to locate you. I’m sorry if that bothers you.”

Strangely, it didn’t, but Tom said nothing, unsure about how much he should give away. “So I take it not everything from legend is true, then? I mean, you came into my house uninvited.”

Christopher chuckled. “I’ve never felt repelled from any place. Not even a church. I haven’t faced a crucifix yet, but if I did, I don’t think it would do anything to me. Maybe you can try throwing holy water at me, or garlic or something. See if I burn.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Tom whispered, setting his empty bowl down and leaning back in his chair. He sighed and rubbed at his face. “Well, in any case, I’m glad you’re okay.” He stood and walked to the sink to rinse his dishes.

He watched Chris carefully, blond brows furrowed, looking down, lost in thought.

“I mean, you are okay, right?”

Blinking, Christopher looked up at him. “I honestly don’t know.”

Tom came round the counter and stood by his chair, wanting to lay a hand on his shoulder, but stopping himself last second. “Are you in trouble?

“No.” He sighed and rubbed his face, mirroring Tom’s action from moments before. “I don’t know. I feel like an outcast. The other vamps are steering very clear of me, and they have made it known they don’t want me around either.” He shrugged. “Which is fine. I don’t want their company. I had already figured it would take some time to fit in with the others at all, to even meet someone whom I could trust. But the nights have been so long lately.”

Tom could empathize, except his days were long, his nights filled with tossing and turning, his sight on the window.

“Forgive me for being so frank,” Christopher said, standing slowly. Tom took a small step back, crossing his arms quietly. “But the only person I’ve been able to think about is you.”

Tom swallowed, feeling his face flush with heat.

“I’m not going to lie, Chris. I’ve thought a lot about you too.”

Christopher raised his hand and Tom inhaled quietly, bracing himself, watching it warily. But he cupped it gently on Tom’s cheek, long-lashed eyes dancing over his face.

“You’re very beautiful. With the fire in you. That intelligence sharp in your eyes. Your hesitant smile and unrestrained warmth. But you’re skittish, too.” He shook his head, stepping closer still.

“Thank you,” Tom breathed, realizing he would have laughed any other time at such words. He could hardly breathe at that moment.

Christopher leaned down, lips at Tom's temple. "I want to protect you."

Tom said nothing, only watched him. His senses were buzzing, fully aware of the preternatural being before him, so still and so calm, but menacing and massive all the same. It was an overwhelming balance, and Tom found himself wanting to drink it all in.

"And I've made it weird," Christopher said softly, cringing. "Did I make it weird? I'm so sorry." He looked down, mortified.

Tom let out a breathy laugh, hands falling to his sides.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You kind of scare me. But I like you a lot, Chris."

Blue eyes on his, crinkling. "I like you too." He sighed. "I wish things had gone differently. Before. I'm sorry for everything." His gaze dropped to Tom's throat, even as he licked his lips, remembering. "Would it be...would I be able to stay? Again?"

Tom paused, having somehow known he would ask that. And frankly, seeing as Christopher seemed to mean him no immediate harm, Tom really didn't mind, apart from the fact that the bathroom had already started to feel distinctly like Christopher's, that he had been displaced and would now return where he belonged.

“Is that the reason why you came back?” Tilted smile, teasing.

Christopher’s eyes on him were sharp, softening near the edges. “No. Hardly. You know better.”

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“I didn’t want to tempt myself. It’s hard to explain. But you were healing and you looked so...so frightened last time. Of me. I would always remember it when I thought of coming back. Wide eyes, the pain. Only this last time, I gave in.”

“You can stay." It surprised him, how fast he agreed to it.

Relief flooded Christopher's face. "Thank you." He wrapped him in a hug, giving Tom a moment to let the tension out of his spine, softening into his embrace. "I should head out once more tonight. Can I leave your bedroom window unlocked?"

What the hell, Tom thought. He nodded and then stepped out of Christopher's arms, turning off the lights in the kitchen and heading down the hall. "Sure," he said, "but if I get robbed I'm sending you after them."

"Trust me, no one would dare," Christopher replied before slipping out the door.

Tom frowned, wondering what that even meant.

After brushing his teeth, he unlocked the bedroom window, remembering a time when he would have kept it sealed tight against another possible intrusion. But now he only hoped Christopher returned safely from wherever he was. Falling asleep was not a problem. After three weeks of short hours and slim rest, Tom finally closed his eyes with a relieved exhale.

Sometime later just before dawn, Tom felt a presence in the room and he struggled to wake. Christopher knelt by the bed, his hand touching Tom's hair softly, wide palm and long fingers a pleasantly heavy weight on his head. Tom leaned into the touch, wishing Christopher would stay and lie down with him. But the sun was rising. Already the grey green light of dawn was chasing the dark from the room. Bending close, Christopher kissed his forehead, moaning quietly when Tom turned into him, inching closer, whispering his name. He seemed reluctant to leave Tom’s side, cupping his cheek and trailing his fingers over the curve of Tom’s neck, but he stood and walked away slowly, turning to look at him once more before going into the bathroom and closing the door.

Tom flipped onto his back with a sigh, his hand curling over his forehead, touching the skin there softly.

Rolling things over in his mind as he drowsed, Tom was certain that Christopher had the daring characteristics of a predator, there was no doubt about it. But there was an affection in him, too. He smiled easily and liked to touch Tom, even if he was careful because he knew Tom was still wary of him. But his touches were gentle, and firm, lacking in any hesitation despite the caution Christopher exhibited.

He tried to imagine him as a cook or dishwasher. White apron stained and tied haphazardly behind his back, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Muscles jumping in his forearms as he swiveled a pan expertly, grip tight on its handle. Maybe his ponytail would be jammed under a worn baseball cap or a knotted bandana, Tom mused, hugging his pillow. Smile wide as he rinsed dishes with a power spray that he flicked over smeared food crumbs, laughing and sharing stories with the other kitchen staff. Tom wondered if with his sudden transformation, this whole new life, certain traits formed over his psyche, molding his nature into something he had no control over. He wondered if Christopher felt fear, apart from being left alone by the person who made him this way. Or if all fear vanished once he was claimed by night.

Tom wasn’t sure. It was hard to deny, however, that Tom was beginning to like Christopher’s touch, the revered focus he gave him, the hesitancy shown for Tom’s concern. Like a puppy, Tom thought, yawning. A very, very dangerous puppy.

He had another two hours before his alarm went off, so he buried himself in the covers and fell asleep.

**

He left his house that morning after having tiptoed back to his room, inclining his ear to the bathroom door. It was deadly quiet. Still he pressed his palm to the grained wood and whispered, “I’ll be home later.”

Work was a wonderful distraction. He read through two manuscripts that day, editing and writing comments in the margins with green ink, and attended a meeting about the new developments in the non-fiction department of the publishing house.

For lunch, he sipped on a coffee and ate a quick sandwich from the deli across the street, but was too busy for much else, slouching in the shadow of a striped parasol at his table on the patio, scratching out notes in a pad, another pile of scripts demanding his attention back on his desk.

By the time he dragged himself away from his office, it was dark out and his stomach was rumbling again. Checking his watch, he walked through the lot, peering up into the bits of sky visible through the tops of the buildings.

A breeze ghosted over his face and then he was colliding into something hard, immovable.

“Jesus!” he cried, stumbling back, hand at his heart. Christopher stood before him, swaying slightly from the force of his own movement, eyes wide in apology. He lifted his hands in a hurry.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean...I’m trying to—.” He sighed. “I guess I still can’t gauge when I should stop or how fast I’m going.”

Tom swallowed and straightened his shirt, smoothing down his tie. “That’s...alright,” he conceded, feeling his heart in his throat. “I guess I’m still not used to knowing someone who can move that fast.”

Christopher smiled and then chuckled softly, looking down at his feet. "Here I am trying to get you to trust me and I keep startling you. I'm sorry."

Tom smirked, switching his briefcase over to his other hand. "I have a feeling there will always be something about you that startles me, Chris."

He started toward his car and Chris fell into step beside him, their long legs keeping them astride of each other.

"It doesn't help that I just fed," Chris murmured. Tom threw him a confused glance and he hurried to explain. "I feel almost tossed when I drink blood."

"What, like you feel drunk?" He unlocked the car and they climbed in.

"Yes, something like that. Do you remember when you took your first sip of beer, back when you were a teenager? That rush to your head? Made you feel light and fearless?"

Tom smiled and put the car in gear and reversed, nodding. It had been a while since he felt like that. True, he didn’t drink much, but even when he did, he never allowed himself to get fully drunk. But there’s nothing like one’s first taste of the stuff.

"It's like that, only much stronger. Like I had twenty first sips and it was hard liquor rather than the weak brew I'd managed to snag from a friend's party when I was fourteen." He emphasized this with a small giggle, clamping his lips shut and looking off, embarrassed.

“You really are tossed,” Tom said, laughing quietly.

“I am not,” Christopher replied, crossing his arms. "Buzzed maybe. It’s worse if I drink from more than one person in a night. Maybe I’ll develop a tolerance, like alcohol. It's funny actually,” he said, almost to himself. “It's what gave me the courage to kiss you that second morning."

Braking at the exit of the lot, Tom looked over at him, profile outlined in the pulse of night, in the diamond drops of hour-old rain misted over the windows.

Christopher sighed and leaned his head back. "I'm not sorry for that."

Foot on the gas pedal, Tom returned his smile. "I'm not either."

Nodding, Christopher grinned and stared out the windshield, happy in his small victory. It warmed Tom's heart, telling him more about Christopher’s inherently kind character than the handful of his terrifying appearances thus far. This was the real Christopher, the one from before, and Tom found himself desiring to learn more about the man beside him, how he’d changed or stayed the same since his recent metamorphosis. If anything, it indicated that Christopher might be a happy drunk.

**

“Do you always get out this late?” Christopher asked as Tom pulled into his small driveway.

“No, actually. I hadn’t realized the time. I stayed over a couple of hours.”

They walked into the empty house, Tom flipping on lights and depositing his briefcase on the table in the living room. Christopher cocked his head in the air and sniffed once before relaxing and sinking onto the couch.

Tom loosened his tie and headed to the bedroom. “Be right back. Going to shower.”

He felt Christopher following him with his eyes, and Tom tried and failed to suppress the shiver that raced down his spine.

There were small splotches of mud at the foot of his tub, so he let the water run for a few moments to clear it. Shampooing his hair and soaping his body, he hummed quietly, the water washing away the hard lines of tension from his back.

At one point he heard a small noise behind the curtain and fell silent, clearing his eyes of soap.

He held still, listening.

“Chris?” he whispered.

But when he peeked around the green plastic, he saw that the bathroom was empty. You need more sleep, he thought tiredly to himself.

At that moment, the door banged open and Christopher stood there, crowding the small bathroom.

Tom yelped and clutched the shower curtain over his chest, as if Christopher hadn’t already seen at least that at one point.

“Are you okay? I heard you call me.”

Wiping at his eyes, Tom stared behind him at the curtained window in the bedroom. “Yes…I’m alright. I just thought I heard something.”

Christopher frowned and took another sniff of the air, turning in a slow circle and heading back out to the bedroom. He stayed there for a long moment. Tom watched him, feeling the water start to turn cold at his back. Christopher shifted the curtains aside, staring out into the black night. He sniffed again before closing the curtains tight and poking his head in the bathroom again.

“Sure you’re okay?”

Tom nodded. “Is everything alright?”

Christopher hesitated. He cast a glance behind him at the room again. “I think so. Dinner’s almost ready. I’m just gonna take a quick look outside, okay?”

“Is that really—?” But Christopher was gone, the door closed behind him with a sharp click.

Rinsing quickly, Tom shut off the water and dried himself off. He rubbed lotion over his limbs before dressing in casual jeans and a T-shirt.

Leaving his feet bare, Tom padded down the hall, nose picking up the most amazing aroma as he neared the kitchen.

He found Christopher at the stove, wooden spatula in hand, mixing some ingredients together in a pan. He smiled when Tom entered.

“Noticed you eat like a bird. Hungry most of the time, I can tell. Thought I’d make you something, as a thank you.”

Tom noticed he mentioned nothing about what he may or may not have discovered sniffing around outside. But if Christopher wasn’t worried, Tom figured he didn’t need to be either. Instead, he stared at the array of cut vegetables and sliced meat ready to be placed into the pan, and then up at Christopher, who watched him with an expectant smile, brows lifted.

“I forget that you were a cook,” Tom said softly, coming to stand closer.

“Yeah. Learned a few things. Hope you like fajitas.”

Tom had never had fajitas. His face must have shown.

Christopher chuckled. “It’s Mexican. Just tomatoes and green peppers and onions and meat. I like to serve it with white rice, but most often it’s served with Spanish rice.”

“The red kind?” Tom really didn’t know much about the culinary arts or what this or that dish consisted of. He supposed that Christopher was right. He really did eat like a bird. And because of that, he often had very little food in his refrigerator.

“Where did you get all this?”

Christopher hesitated, wooden spatula frozen in mid-air. “Went out and got it.”

Tom laughed. “In the few minutes it’s been since I jumped in the shower?”

Shrugging, Christopher continued stirring, turning off the flame and checking on the rice in the next pan.

“You’re really that fast, then.” Tom certainly remember how quickly Christopher had found him when they were playing their cat-and-mouse game almost a month ago, but the nearest grocery store was almost twenty minutes away and it seemed an illogical amount of time to get back and start on the food.

Christopher turned to him, brows raised. “Yes, I’m really that fast. But if you want the truth, I just went into your neighbor’s kitchen and took the items from their fridge.”

“You just—?” Tom’s mouth fell open and he went to the window in the living room to peer out. He turned back, voice dropping to a whisper. “You just walked right in and stole from them?”

Christopher looked unconcerned. “First of all, they’re not home. Second of all, I do it all the time. I’m a pro. Even if they were home, they wouldn’t have known I was even there.”

Tom let the curtain fall back. “You steal?”

Shrugging again, Christopher poured the steaming rice over a plate and then ladled the fajitas on top of it. Tom couldn’t help how his mouth watered. “I steal because I can. I don’t have a job right now. I mean, I could get something like working security at a club, but I don’t trust myself around crowds of people. Besides, you don’t have any food in the house. How do you even survive?”

Tom bristled slightly, and went to sit at the table. “I survive just fine, thank you. I’m not the one without a heartbeat.”

He regretted it the second he said it. Christopher stiffened, the long line of his back tensing under the implication of Tom’s words.

Tom stood quickly. “Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Setting the plate down gently, Christopher sighed and then smiled at him, a little tightly, and a little sadly. There was a blur of motion and then the kitchen was empty. Tom felt the breeze on his face, heard the door slam against the wall, creaking to a slow shut in the wake of Christopher’s departure.

“No!” He ran outside. “Wait! Chris, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…”

But the street was empty. A cold breeze shifted up from the pavement and circled his ankles, making him shiver. He crossed his arms and turned this way and that, but Christopher was gone.

Muttering to himself, Tom trudged back inside, feeling terrible. Rubbing his feet along his calves to chase the cold away, Tom sighed and locked the door. On the counter sat the plate of food Christopher had prepared for him, still steaming.

“Oh, darling,” Tom murmured, fingering the edge of the porcelain. Taking a fork, he scooped up a bit of rice and seasoned meat. A bounty of flavors burst over his tongue and he moaned softly. Before he knew it, the plate was clear of food and he was turning to the stove to serve himself some more. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, Tom sat at the table and chewed in silence, wondering what he and Christopher might have talked about had he stayed.

Had I not been a complete twat and just kept my mouth shut, he thought bitterly.

Christopher hadn’t deserved that. It was obvious that he was confused and still struggled with his new violent and dangerous nature. But he was kind and he was trying, Tom could see that. He exhibited a childish sort of curiosity about the world and wanted to learn about his new abilities to better control them, to not hurt Tom. And that was certainly saying something, considering Christopher hadn’t been given a choice in the matter of his new life.

Tom knew how Christopher felt about him, the attraction, his desire to protect, and provide. Christopher was more than obvious about it. And Tom was feeling something quite similar, even if his initial fear and reserved personality prevented him from following those feelings with any kind of reciprocating action. It didn’t stop him from thinking about it, however. Alone at night, shifting and listless. At his work desk, glancing out the window. On the drive home, squinting at the sky, wondering where Christopher had slept that day, where he would be waking to the dancing stars above.

Tom worried for him. There was no denying that. He would much prefer having Christopher sleep in the house with him, than out there in some dirty garden or decrepit building where anyone might stumble upon him and harm him while he was defenseless with something as simple as sifting the dirt from his face so that the sun finished him off with flames.

He shuddered at the thought.

Gathering the dishes, he washed them and turned out the kitchen light. His room was cast aglow with the silver light of a half moon. About to pull the curtains closed, Tom paused, looking out into his back garden. He unlatched the window lock and then arranged the curtains so that no light came in.

After flossing and brushing his teeth, he stood and glanced around uselessly before resigning himself to sleep. Climbing under the covers, he fidgeted until finally settling down with a sigh.

**

The bed creaked and Tom’s eyes flittered open. He’d slept, but he wasn’t sure for how long.

A heavy weight dipped the mattress behind him and he leaned back, already knowing who it was.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his back to Christopher’s chest.

Christopher said nothing, just bent his head and rested his forehead on the sharp ridge of Tom’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it. It was a heartless thing to say.” To his great surprise, tears stung his eyes and he blinked fast. “You didn’t deserve it.”

Christopher sighed and nosed along his shoulder, breath puffing out surprisingly warm against the shirt Tom wore.

Tom turned and faced him. Taking his cheeks, he peered at him in the dark. “Please say something, darling.”

The endearment came out naturally, unexpectedly, but he felt the way Christopher softened at the word. A big hand came to rest on Tom’s waist and Tom inched closer, waiting.

“It’s okay,” Christopher said. “It didn’t hurt so much my feelings as it did my pride. I wish I could be human for you.”

Tom shook his head, running a hand over the smooth blond strands fallen free from Christopher’s pony tail. “No. Don’t think like that. I would never have met you otherwise. B-but,” he hurried to say, aware of how crass that might sound. “I’m sorry that you have to go through this, when you so obviously don’t want to. That this was done to you against your will.”

Christopher shrugged and Tom smiled, his heart jumping with affection at the movement.

“I don’t like to live with regrets,” Christopher said softly. “This happened, so I’m learning to adjust. It’s been hard, and painful. And I never like to say never,” he whispered with a small laugh. “But it would have been harder for us to meet if I was human, I think.”

Tom shuffled closer and they relaxed into a loose embrace, Christopher’s arms circling him.

“Where did you go tonight? When you left?”

Christopher seemed fascinated with Tom’s face, palming one cheek, letting his thumb graze over the sharp bone there. Tom imagined that perhaps Chris could see a lot better in the dark than a human.

“I went down to the water. Where that big circle thing is.” Tom smiled.

“The Thames? It’s called The London Eye.”

“It’s beautiful,” Christopher murmured, and Tom had the impression that he wasn’t talking about the giant Ferris wheel at all.

“D-do you like that?” he stammered, their faces drifting a centimeter closer. “The water? Do you like being around it?” He remembered the morning they met, Christopher’s skin burning, heat rolling off him in waves. The bathwater had soothed him into a quiet slumber, the start of this improbable sequence of events.

“I do, yeah,” Christopher said, blinking. “I used to surf back home. In Melbourne. The water reminds me of it, those years in the sun, the sand sticking to me.”

Tom smiled and leaned into Christopher’s palm. “How adorable you must have been. You played other sports?”

Christopher slid his lips along Tom’s forehead, breathing in the scent of his hair, his leg inching to rest over Tom’s calves. Tom noticed he wasn’t wearing his boots, the feel of the cool underside of his foot sliding over Tom’s ankle. “I did. Football, both types. I liked baseball, but wasn’t very good at it. Mostly I kept to the water.”

Tom angled his head up, skimming his hands up Christopher’s ribs and around his back.

“So you don’t need it to sleep in?”

“Mmm, no,” Christopher said, nuzzling Tom’s temple. “Just for comfort. And to heal, I guess.”

They lay against each other, breathing gently, cupping each other’s faces. Tom felt the contentment settle deep in his bones, twisting like warm embers in his belly, of the feel of another person in his bed, next to him, holding him. He missed it.

But then Christopher smiled a little sadly and put some space between them. “You should sleep. You work tomorrow—.”

“Stay,” Tom whispered, curling his hands into the front of Christopher’s shirt. Christopher hesitated, angling away with what seemed like regret.

“Stay?” he repeated softly.

Tom’s heartbeat jumped and Christopher glanced down at his throat. “Yes, stay. Just…just to lie down with me? It’s so nice to have someone here, beside me.”

Christopher turned away, eyeing the bathroom door. Tom followed his gaze.

“The curtains aren’t dark enough, are they?” he asked, guessing his thoughts.

“No,” Christopher said. “Not nearly enough.” He lay back down against Tom, an inch of space between them. “I’ll stay until sunrise. And then I have to go back to the tub.”

“Okay,” Tom agreed, already planning on making a stop at the store as soon as he got off work.

Slowly, Christopher opened his arms and Tom sidled closer, pressing his body against him, liking how his face felt nudged just under Christopher’s jaw. It was a bit strange not feeling a pulse there, but he found he didn’t mind it so much if it meant Christopher kept kissing the crown of his head, his big hands sliding over the length of his spine, fingers tender and light. Besides, it kept Christopher’s mouth away from his neck and that was how Tom wanted it to remain for the time being. Even though…even though he remembered the spiral of arousal he’d felt back at the hotel room the first time Christopher had bitten him. Like there was a line connected from the points of Christopher’s teeth to the root of his groin. Tom would never forget it. Or the pain that followed when his blood was pulled too fast from him, too violently.

It was too dangerous, he decided, sighing against Christopher’s throat. It wasn’t worth the risk.

They settled into a cocoon of twined limbs. It was so quiet, and Tom was on the verge of falling asleep when he asked, rather suddenly, “Do you ever get drowsy?”

Christopher thought for a moment. “Not really. Not since my change. Sometimes just before dawn, a heavy fatigue will hit me, and I try to be underground before then. I felt it when I first broke through your window, but I was too stuck in panic mode for it to have any real effect. But if you’re asking if I can nap or sleep otherwise, I don’t think so. I don’t get that urge.”

Tom hummed. “Shame.” And then he closed his eyes and fell off to sleep.

**

He woke sometime later, a jolt to his body making his eyes spring open in surprise. He squinted and saw Christopher lying beside him, holding Tom at arm’s length, eyes squeezed shut, hands tightening almost painfully on Tom’s biceps.

“What’s—?”

“Shh,” Christopher whispered, angling his head low, gasping through his mouth.

Tom held still, eyes flicking over him. His long body was rigid, their only point of contact where Christopher had a death grip on Tom’s arms. And that’s when he noticed it. The bulge in Christopher’s jeans, the clenched jaw, the trembling.

Tom swallowed. At his throat, his heart rate spike.

Christopher whimpered just then, as if in pain, head bent low. “Oh, god…”

“Chris…talk to me.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Tom. Everything was fine and then we…we started moving against each other and you were asleep still and then you moaned and I—I’m having trouble—.” He broke off with a snarl and Tom flinched.

When Christopher finally looked at him again, under the thick canopy of those curled lashes, it was through the haze of something dark, something heavy that made the blue of his eyes black, just as they had been in the kitchen all those weeks ago when his bloodied bandage had Christopher crowding him against the counter.

Christopher blinked once, and it was so reminiscent of a predator’s gaze that Tom cringed, watching with bated breath as Christopher’s lips parted and out slid his fangs, seeming longer in the dim light of the room.

Tom’s eyes widened and he started to struggle, tugging on his arms, trying to get Christopher to release him. But Christopher only pulled Tom closer into the hollow cavity of space between himself and the mattress, something low and purring deep in his chest.

“No! Wait—Chris, wait. Please!”

Christopher dipped his head and sniffed along Tom’s temple, down to his cheek, and every hair on Tom’s body stood on end, a rush of fear and adrenaline soaking his blood stream.

Christopher moaned and opened his mouth, letting the edge of one fang trace along the line of Tom’s jaw, heading to the artery that ran the length of his neck. 

Desperate, Tom licked his lips and willed his heart to slow. This was Christopher. He knew Christopher didn’t want to hurt him, and that his cravings and desire seemed to roar stronger because he was so unfamiliar with this new nature of his. Maybe it was just like being a teenager, when one’s sexual awakening was so heightened and it was harder to control the show of arousal, only this time it was with the sharper of threat of, well, _death_.

“Chris,” Tom whispered, sliding his hand into Christopher’s hair. He butted his forehead gently against Christopher’s temple, trying to get his attention through gentle touch, through affection. Christopher moaned again quietly and pushed his hips down. Impressive, Tom thought somewhat breathlessly, feeling the erection pressed to his thigh. His own cock was half-hard, but his raw fear and rising panic kept his full desire at bay.

“Chris, darling, listen to me. Can you hear me?”

An exhale against his neck and Tom arched, feeling a spike of something warm and tender creep down his spine.

Lips kissed along his neck, and Tom softened toward him, wrapping his arms around his wide shoulders. But then sharp edge of teeth was back and Tom tightened, his fear mounting.

“Please, Chris,” he whispered, tugging at Christopher’s head, but it was like trying to move a statue. Fighting his own confusing emotions—the excitement of Chris above him, the strength in his limbs, the obvious desire Christopher displayed for him, his own shivering need seeping through his panic, mixed with the dread of more pain and possible injury—Tom started to pant, his anxiety and the darkness of the room, and the terrible belief that what hovered over him now was an animal with dangerous instincts and not Christopher at all.

“Don’t,” he whimpered, as Christopher’s wide palm took hold of Tom’s jaw and started angling his head to the side, exposing his neck, where his sweet pulse fluttered frantically.

Tom dropped his arms and pushed at the hard chest above him, his fists curled and beating against what felt like granite.

“No!”

Christopher took hold of one wrist and pulled to the side, opening Tom up to him, wrapping a thick arm behind his neck to better immobilize him.

“Chris—no!”

He reached out and landed a hard slap on Christopher’s face, the smack loud and resonating in the dark room. Pain lanced up his arm as Christopher’s head whipped to the side, and Tom took the chance to scramble out from under him, crawling up to the headboard and kneeling there, breathing hard.

Christopher held still, poised over the warm circle Tom had just vacated. And then he lifted his head and peered at Tom, eyes not quite so black anymore, just a sliver of blue visible at the edges.

"Tom," he whispered, taking in Tom's defensive stance, one hand cradled against his belly, the other placed protectively over his throat, and then down at the bed, his own long body stretched out where they had been lying so peacefully before.

"Shit," he gasped, scrambling up. He slid off the bed and then winced, cupping his crotch with a shudder. He was still hard, and his fangs were still exposed, if not slightly retracted. Tom watched him warily, drawing his legs further under him.

"I'm sorry," Christopher started, tripping in his haste to back away. "I..." He turned and stared at the wall, swiping a hand through his hair. "Goddammit!"

Tom flinched and cowered away.

Even in all his anger, his obvious frustration, Christopher was radiant with beauty. The clenched jaw, the curled fingers, the bent brow, he moved like a lion as he paced the length of Tom's bedroom, muttering. The muscles beneath his clothes looked tense and bunched together, ready to spring. Toward what, Tom was not keen to find out.

"You need to work on that," Tom managed to say, gasping through his panic.

Christopher paused, not turning to look at him, but obviously listening.

"I need to be able t-to... _stop_ you if it gets to be too much." He swallowed. "I'm sorry that I hit you."

"Don't apologize," Christopher said, head hanging. He bent and retrieved his boots. "There's about an hour left before sunrise. I'll be back." He hesitated as he shrugged into one of them. "If I'm still welcome."

Without waiting for Tom's response, he disappeared in a flash out the bedroom door. Faintly, Tom heard the front door open and close.

Tom finally breathed out the air he'd felt locked in his chest since Christopher had first opened his eyes eclipsed by black. Uncurling his legs, he flopped down on the bed and got a whiff of Christopher's scent on the sheets, something earthy about it, something metallic and salty, reminding him of oranges and the electric shift in the air when it was about to rain.

His hand throbbed and he flexed it, sensing nothing broken. Still, it smarted and he curled it into the palm of the other, trying to massage the sting away. 

He wondered if Christopher was out on the banks of the Thames that moment, watching the Eye, its pin wheeled arms motionless this early in the pre-dawn gloom. He wondered if he was feeding on someone that instant, and tried to identify the small twinge he felt in his chest at the thought. Like that time he was seven and his favorite older cousin had taken Tom’s red ball and started playing with one of their friends, the two bouncing the red globe back and forth, Tom watching from behind a tree, tears in his eyes.

Christopher bending low over some struggling person, those big hands squeezing too hard, bones crunching as they gave in to his onslaught, their eyes dimming as he drained them, mouth working over the swollen artery at their neck.

Christopher's mouth on someone else's neck.

Tom sat up, the image doing more to anger him than frighten him. He knew Christopher wouldn't go that far with him, wouldn't hurt him. He wanted, he realized with a sigh, for Christopher not to have to go to others for his need for blood. It was getting harder to deny the snap of excitement in his veins when he saw the fangs peeking out from behind Christopher's full lips. There had been the flash of fire when they first went in, but then a low pooling of heat in his groin as Christopher sucked. If he could somehow keep it at that stage, and not go beyond to when it burned, slicing at him, cutting him, so deep in his veins.

It was too dangerous.

Still, Tom stood and walked to the window, pulled aside the drapes and unlocked the clasp. Falling back into bed, he curled up on the spot where Christopher had lain, closing his eyes once more.

**

His alarm woke him a few hours later.

Disoriented for a moment, Tom peered around with one eye cracked open, and then what had happened in the early morning hours came rushing back. He jumped up with a gasp and ran to the window. It was locked and the curtains were drawn. Turning to the bathroom, he saw it was closed and there, just at the base of the door, were Christopher's boots, unlaced and slightly muddy.

Tom smiled and bent to pick them up. He held them in his arms and gave them a tiny squeeze before turning on his heel and heading into the guest bathroom. He washed up and then took the boots to the laundry nook, wiping them down carefully and drying them off with a soft clean towel. He returned them to the bathroom door, and then started getting dressed for work. Drinking only a cup of coffee over the morning paper, Tom left a quarter to eight, his mind on the occupant of his bathtub.

Arranging his draft load to be finished by four that the afternoon, Tom toiled diligently, skipping lunch, until he'd completed his edits and notes on the last manuscript on his desk. He briefly thought that Christopher would disapprove of his not having eaten anything, but he quickly put it out of his mind and left the office happier than he'd felt in weeks.

The sun was still blazing through the cracks between buildings over the western side of the city, so Tom turned his car toward a department store that sold fabrics exclusively.

Perusing the aisles, he found the drapery section and craned his neck at the tall shelves of folded bundles of cloth. He scanned the various color and patterns, some truly hideous and gaudy, and wondered if this little side trip would take longer than he'd anticipated.

A woman approached him and offered her help and he quickly fabricated a story about the bright sunlight that flooded his bedroom every morning.

"It wakes me up so early and it's really starting to take a toll on my energy. I guess I'm just not a morning person," he said, hoping his smile was disappointed enough.

She smiled right back. "That's not a problem in the least. I take it you want something dark enough but not depressing like black, right?"

"Yes! Can you help me choose something?"

In the end, he chose something called 'Oxford Blue', dark enough to be mistaken for black, but still visibly blue to the naked eye. The material was crisscrossed with diamond shaped needle patterns, and he found himself touching the soft fabric, pleased with his selection. Before he paid, he picked out a silver rod to hang the curtains from.

He arrived home with just enough time to quickly install the rod and curtains, arranging them nicely so they hung to the floor without a wrinkle. He was tossing the old curtains into the washing machine when he heard a thump from his bedroom and he straightened, cocking his head to listen. After a few more minutes of silence, he tiptoed to his room and peered in. The bathroom door was open and the boots were gone. The new curtains were pushed roughly to one side and from where he stood, he could see the window was closed but unlocked.

Sighing, he retreated into the kitchen to finally eat something substantial.

**

Christopher was gone for a week. He never returned after the day Tom had bought the new curtains, excited to show him his carefully selected purchase, how dark they were.

The bedroom window stayed unopened, there were no boots outside the bathroom door. On the fourth day, just to make sure, Tom had even dared to open the door a crack, peering into the darkness inside. But the shower curtain remained pulled open, the tub empty. He wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt to realize that Christopher had stopped coming to him for shelter. Resting against the wall, he sighed and wondered, yet again, where Christopher was, if he was safe.

The following Saturday, Tom had just poured himself a cup of tea and was settled onto the sofa with a book when there was a knock at the door. He perked up, pushing his reading glasses up into his hair, and went to open it.

Christopher stood there, wearing a new blue shirt with some kind of band emblem under his dark leather jacket. Cloth necklaces disappeared under the collar, making Tom wonder what they looked like on his bare chest.

"New shirt?" Tom blurted out, and then reddened, feeling stupid.

Christopher glanced down, brows lifting. "Yeah. Took it from someone tonight."

"More stealing," Tom said, smiling softly. He stepped aside and gestured for Christopher to come in.

"Yeah, well. He won't be needing it anymore," Christopher said darkly, peering around, nostrils flaring. He looked down at the floor and then half-giggled in that way people do when amused for no reason. But then he clenched his jaw and turned away.

Tom frowned. So he had just fed. And probably killed the poor bloke.

He closed the door and then followed Christopher into the living room, sinking down onto the couch where he'd been reading.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a little hesitant, really wanting to know where he’d been, if he’d slept somewhere secure the last week. But Christopher ignored the question.

"You read all day for work. You read for fun here at home. What else do you do?" He remained standing, but turned full circle to meet Tom's eyes, waiting. His eyes lingered on Tom’s glasses perched on top of his head.

Shifting, Tom shrugged. "I like to run. I like sitting out in the yard." He paused, realizing how mundane he sounded. "Sometimes, I like to go dancing, but...I haven't done that in a long time." His last good friend that had known that side of Tom had moved away the year before, and Tom hadn't been back to any of their favorite spots to dance and down a drink or two. He missed it, but what kind of loser went dancing by himself?

Christopher smiled, and Tom was struck once again with how lovely his smile was, big and wide, his teeth straight and white and un-fanged. "You? Dancing? I can't see it."

Tom scoffed. “Well, pardon me, but I’ve been told that I’m a great dancer.”

“Oh, yeah? By who? Another man?” Christopher crouched easily by the sofa, leaning in toward him.

“Um. Well, yes. And some women. I—I’ve gotten a few compliments about it.”

Blue eyes shifting over his face, teasing. “What have they said? Will you show me?” Christopher's face was open with curiosity, brows high, eyes crinkling. This was how he was when not under the dark pull of his blood lust. There was still some of that giddiness, the influence of the blood in his system, but Tom could see, once more, Christopher as a carefree cook in some kitchen, laughing and happy. If it weren’t for the extreme danger, Tom found that he liked Christopher both ways.

“Show you?”

“Yeah! Let’s go out. Tonight. Show me how you dance.”

“You’ve been gone for a week,” he said, hesitating, trying not to be sore about it. “And I thought you couldn’t handle big crowds.”

Christopher blinked and his face fell. “Oh,” he said, looking down. “I almost forgot…for a second there.”

Anxious to get that look off his face, Tom sat up. “I would really like to. I mean, maybe in a little while, when you feel more comfortable around groups of people? We could go.”

Christopher lifted his head. "You think so?"

"Sure," Tom said, smiling.

Christopher's lashes vibrated as he took in all of Tom's face. "I've missed you," he said softly.

“Then why did you go?” Tom asked, half not wanting to hear the answer.

Christopher inched closer. Tom’s heart jumped when he put his hands on Tom's thighs, kneeling before him.

"I love hearing that," Christopher murmured. "The way your heart speeds up when I get close." Eyes on Tom's lips, their faces nearing. "But is it fear that makes it pound so hard, or something else?"

Tom swallowed and Christopher narrowed his eyes at the sound, following the movement. "A little fear," Tom said, almost too soft to hear, but Christopher's senses were so heightened he caught the words. "I can't help but remember how much it hurt, your teeth in me. Your hands."

"My hands?" His brows drew together, concerned. He loosened the grip he had on Tom's thighs, but kept his fingers splayed wide there.

"That morning. It seemed like you were trying to keep me away from you, because you knew something was happening that you were going to have to fight to control, and you were keeping me at arm's length just in case you lost. But when it became obvious that you wouldn't be able to control it, your hands tightened on me. Hard. And you pulled me closer even though...even though I—."

"You told me to stop?" Christopher whispered, head dropping. He removed his hands and straightened from his crouch. "I don't remember this." He ran a hand through his hair, features clouded over in confusion.

Tom sat up. "You don't seem to be yourself when you're like that. But, Chris..." He came to stand beside him. "Don't be discouraged. I saw you, when you came out of it. After I hit you. I saw you emerge. You, the real you. Your eyes cleared a bit and you recognized me. You said my name. And maybe, well, maybe it's something that you'll get better at. Like the tossed feeling you get after you drink from someone. Or the..."

He hesitated and Christopher took his elbow, listening rapt. "The what?" he said softly.

Tom felt the heat rise in his face and Christopher's lips parted, absorbing every detail.

"Well...it's nothing. Forget I mentioned it."

Christopher tightened his hold. "No, please. I value what you have to say. You have no idea how little interaction I get with other people. None are nearly as smart or thoughtful as you."

Tom ducked his head, feeling the compliment etch over his skin like a whisper.

"I don't know about all that."

"I'm serious. I'm not sure why, but I feel, well, ostracized, by the other vamps. And I'm avoiding humans altogether. Everyone but you. Before this last week, the only conversations I had were with you."

Tom's heart shifted somewhere in his chest and he stamped down the urge to gather Christopher to his chest and protect him from any further rejection and harm.

He sighed and crossed his arms instead. His elbow slipped from Christopher's hand, hanging in the air, frozen.

"The way I see it, it's like a sexual reawakening almost." He hated being so blunt, but Christopher's stare was unwavering and it made him want to fidget. "Just like when we were teenagers, and we first discovered our bodies. The...hard-ons and wet dreams, and what made us..."

"Come?" The smile on Christopher's face was full of knowing and Tom hated him a little for it.

Face on fire, Tom nodded and looked down. "We've learned to control that, haven't we? In the years since then? Maybe, what comes over you when you're thirsty and...turned on, it won't be something so hard for you to control in the future. Maybe it will be just as strong," he added, curious as to what exactly Christopher actually felt, the almost affectionate purring that had stirred in his chest, rumbling when he smelled along Tom's face and neck, the tunneled focus that left Tom feeling breathless and just as light. It seemed good for Christopher, to have felt something like that; it had certainly felt good for Tom, up until the point he needed to stop him. If he could only control his urge to drink, to drain, to kill, then maybe it would be a different story, for the both of them.

In not so many words, he explained this to Christopher.

He cocked his head, considering. "Maybe," he conceded, not entirely convinced. "It's true that I have gotten better at stopping and calculating how fast I'm going when I move. Or sensing the dawn down to the last minute. Finding you." \

"Yes!" Tom said, happy for him. "That is exactly what I mean. You just have to give yourself time, Chris." He touched his arm and Christopher looked down at his hand.

"I want to be able to touch you," he said. "With your permission of course. I really like to touch. I like hugs and cuddles and sleeping wrapped up in you. Um, in people. Whoever."

He turned away but Tom snatched at his hand, gripping it tight. "Don't," he said, and Christopher stopped short, still looking away. "You do that, you know. You leave. When you're uncomfortable. Or when you feel you've done something bad. Or when I'm a jerk and hurt your feelings." Christopher huffed, but kept his eyes down. "You left again this last time, but you don't have to do that. You don't have to disappear. I—I really like having you here. I like knowing you're okay. That you're in my tub instead of shoveled under a mound of dirt god knows where. And I...I've liked the times we've kissed. Even...even that morning on my bed. When your eyes were so black and you were nudging at me under my jaw. It was sweet. I wish it had continued that way."

He shut up, feeling he'd said more than enough. He rocked back on his heels and hugged his chest loosely.

“My eyes were black?”

“Yeah. Just the irises. Not the whole eye.”

“Jesus,” Christopher muttered, sinking down onto the sofa, rubbing his face. “There’s so much I don’t know. So much I don’t know how to figure out. Jones said he would show me everything. But with him dead, and the other vamps avoiding me, I don’t know what to do.”

Tom sat beside him, drawing a leg up under himself. “Why are they avoiding you?”

“I don’t know,” Christopher said, rather dismissively. “I’m not concerned about it. They seem like brainless twats anyway. I have a feeling it’s a territorial thing. I don’t think Jones was supposed to bring me onto their turf or something. With him gone, so is my protection. Their silence feels like a warning. I’ve been needing to go further and further out of the city to feed.” He paused. “What if…they are angry with me because of the people I’ve killed? You know, like drawing attention to them?”

Tom hesitated, resting his arm along the length of the sofa back, his fingers inches from Christopher’s shoulder. “Like they’ve cold-shouldered you for being abandoned,” he said softly, finally touching the tips of his fingers to the soft leather of Christopher’s jacket. “It doesn’t seem fair. None of this was your fault.”

Christopher’s blue eyes were on him, flicking over Tom’s face, body held tight, as if stopping himself from moving.

“What are you feeling right now?” Tom said softly.

Christopher turned so he was facing Tom on the couch. “Like I want to touch you. Feel you against me. I want to taste you. Your lips. Your blood again.”

“I think you have a hard time balancing being turned on and wanting to drink blood,” Tom said with a small shaky laugh. But the heat on his face revealed more to Christopher than anything he might have said.

He leaned closer, his eyes on Tom’s lips. “I think you’re right. I feel stuck.”

Tom reached and took Christopher’s hand, letting their fingers slide and slot together, squeezing.

“I wish you didn’t feel that way,” he said, sliding his thumb over raised knuckles. “I wish this was easier for you.”

Without another word, Christopher leaned in and slowly pressed his lips to Tom’s, closed and chaste. Testing. Tom’s eyes fluttered shut and he moaned quietly, angling his head for more. Christopher, encouraged, sat up and crowded Tom against the length of the sofa, back pressed to the armrest.

Tentatively, Tom opened his lips, tongue flicking out to lick at Christopher’s mouth. Christopher moaned and his hips jutted forward. The kiss deepened, and Tom was half afraid he would be able to taste the bitter tang of copper in Christopher’s mouth, but he was pleasantly surprised that he couldn’t.

They grappled and fought for purchase, Christopher shedding his jacket in a blur of motion as Tom yanked off his shirt, until finally Christopher lay over him, Tom’s right leg shifting out to hug over the back of his thighs.

Christopher drew back, eyes wide. “I don’t taste like blood, do I?”

Tom smiled, smoothing back the long wisps of blond hair that had escaped his ponytail. “No, darling, you don’t. I had wondered about that.”

“Good.” And then he was kissing him again, his hands roaming over Tom’s chest and waist, drawing him closer, thighs muscling his legs apart to settle against the cradle of his hips.

They pulled away with a gasp, their crotches aligned, half hard. They stared at each other.

In the soft glow of the lamp shade, Tom could see the shifting shadows in Christopher’s blue eyes. His pupils were dilating and retracting at an alarming speed, threatening to eclipse the blue entirely.

“Tom,” Christopher whispered, voice breaking. He was trembling, his arms wrapped under Tom’s waist tightening fractionally. He looked afraid.

“Hey,” Tom said, cupping his face. “Hey, listen to me. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Stay here with me. Focus on me.”

Christopher shuddered and his eyes squeezed shut. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hips down. They both groaned.

When he opened his eyes again, they were completely black and Tom inhaled quietly.

“Chris, no. Come back. Come back to me.” His fingers slid into his hair, curled behind the nape of his neck. He hugged his thighs a little tighter around Christopher’s hips, trying to bring him round.

Christopher blinked and then shook his head, cringing as if in pain. He blinked fast again and then cast blue eyes on him, scared.

“ _Tom_ ,” he groaned, struggling to stay present.

“I’m here! Try to fight it. You’re stronger than it.”

Christopher grimaced and then started moving his hips, rutting against Tom.

He kept whispering Tom’s name, shuddering, obviously in some kind of battle of wills. His rutting was making Tom rock beneath him, making him harder, sweat sprouting on his brow.

“Oh, god…Chris.”

Christopher’s eyes were still blue, but the pupils were huge, their depths so deep they gave Tom the chills, imagining the gaze of panthers and sharks, things that slunk low to the ground, things that crept and pounced.

Still, he seemed to have settled in some half way point for now, focusing on his arousal instead of Tom’s jugular, which he traced with one long thumb, licking his lips.

“Chris.”

Blue-lined eyes snapped to his.

“Chris, did you feed before you came here?”

“Yes.” His voice was husky and it sent a thrill down Tom’s spine.

“And you still thirst?”

“ _Yes_.” The tip of his thumb pressed into the vein at his neck, and Tom stiffened.

“If…” he started, and then winced when Chris thrust down a little harder. “Fuck, darling…” He gulped, trying to compose himself. “If I let you drink from me, will you be able to stop?”

Something in Christopher’s face tightened and he made a small sound in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know, Tom. I don’t want to hurt you.” His gaze settled on the two dime-sized scars on Tom’s neck, gleaming a shade lighter than the rest of his skin. “But I want to taste you again. So badly.”

And Tom wanted to be tasted. He remembered how good it felt, at the beginning, to have Christopher sucking at his neck. He greatly preferred that to him feeding on a stranger, some other body fighting in his arms. And he knew that if Christopher had to tear himself away from Tom at that moment, he would just storm off into the night and probably kill another random person in all his desperation.

At least with Tom, Christopher was intent on showing some kind of restraint.

His mind sought for a solution, and then he remembered how he’d gotten Christopher to stop last time.

“You seem to respond to pain, or shock at the unexpected” he said, and then hurried on when Christopher frowned in confusion, his hips slowing to a stop. They could feel the throb in their groins, and they lay panting, staring at each other. “I had to hit you. Did it hurt?”

“No. It just surprised me. Nothing really hurts me anymore. Except the sun.”

It was difficult staying focused when they were both hard and thrusting minutely against each other.

“Well, I am not the sun—.”

“You are so like the sun,” Christopher interrupted, disagreeing. “I hurt so much.”

Tears pricked at Tom’s eyes. “No, darling. I don’t want you to hurt. And I don’t want to hurt. But we should try. We have to start somewhere.”

Christopher eyed him, no small amount of agony in those blue-black depths. “Are you sure?”

Tom licked his lips, wondering if he was crazy, if he was dreaming. Had a whole week passed and now there were here? On his couch? Half-dressed and frantic, Tom ready to bleed for him?

“Yes,” he whispered, a sense of calm descending over him, his flesh prickling with chills.

Christopher was able to hold off for an entire second before he was dipping and kissing Tom’s mouth again, bringing their chests flush, hips starting their quick rhythm again.

Tom felt nearly all the heat in his body rush to his core, and he wasn’t sure what blood Christopher would be able to pull from him, when it all felt packed into his—.

Christopher bit down roughly, and Tom cried out, fingers hooking into the loops of Christopher’s jeans. He clung to him, cringing, as Christopher sucked hard at his neck, groaning deep in his throat.

And there it was, that spike of arousal straight to his cock. Christopher was pumping against him, and Tom whimpered, trying to roll his hips, desperate for more friction.

Fingers trembling, eyes drifting closed, he whispered, “Darling.” Christopher had him clasped in his arms, big hands wrapping around the back of him, cupping his shoulders in tender, _strong_ affection. He moaned again, the sharp pinpoints of his teeth dragging further into Tom’s vein, deeper.

Tom winced and could feel it happening, the dip in his arousal. The ceiling lights started to blur and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.

“Slow,” he gasped. “Slower…please.” Christopher crowded him even further into the couch, swallowing the spurts of his blood, and Tom felt like he was drowning, his cock still hard, but his mind struggling to focus. “Slow,” he said, a little more forcefully. When Christopher gave no sign of having heard him, Tom began to panic, shifting under him, palming under his hips, trying to lift him. It was no use. Christopher was too heavy, or he was too weak and he collapsed back, breathless. His hand found the back of Christopher’s head and he took a handful of his hair, pulling with the little strength he had against so magnificent a creature. 

The fangs slipped out of his neck and Tom wheezed again, feeling two streaks of blood roll down behind his ear, soaking into the couch.

Christopher’s eyes were black, and he was staring at Tom, the grip in his hair forcing his head back. He grunted, blood staining his lips and teeth, bright and shining, making Tom’s vision spin even more.

“Are you there, baby? Can you hear me?” Tom dared to ask, trying to come to terms with how he might die at any moment.

Christopher blinked, no blue visible. “Tom,” he rasped, tongue licking along his own lips. Tom’s heart jumped, ecstatic, and Christopher growled, that same purring rumble from before. He heard his heart, and wanted more.

“Yes, it’s me. Good job, darling. Focus here,” Tom said, voice low. “Focus on this, right here.” He lifted his hips and Christopher met them with his own. They fell into a desperate rhythm again, Christopher leaning his weight on Tom, faces an inch apart.

“Tom,” Christopher said again, cradling Tom’s head in the crook of one arm, his other hand gripping his jaw. Tom liked that he felt so enveloped by the man, so the center of his attention, all his focus and affection zeroed in on him. Tom found that he liked that quite a bit, being crowded in.

Feeling breathless and lightheaded, and unsure if it was his Christopher listening or not, Tom whispered, “Kiss me.”

And Christopher did, sloppy and a little awkward, his fangs still distended and butting up against Tom’s front teeth. This time, he did taste copper, the flavor of blood flooding his mouth, and even if he didn’t know what was so great about it for Christopher, he realized it wasn’t terrible, especially as he knew it was his own.

They kissed, again and again, Tom trying to familiarize himself with Christopher’s fangs, darting his tongue out to trace them shyly. Christopher shuddered at that and his hips pressed down hard.

“More…? Tom, more.” And his eyes were so loving, so bright despite their murky depths, that Tom nodded and was lifting his chin for more kisses, when Christopher took his jaw and angled his head to the side.

Two more pinpricks tore into his skin and Tom screamed, but not entirely from pain. His cock, stimulated by Christopher’s thrusts and the pull of a wide mouth latched onto him, pulsed and then burst in a blinding flash of white, soaking his pants and stealing his breath. Tom arched and grabbed at his back, groaning. His climax wouldn’t wane, not with Christopher’s teeth embedded in him. He pulsed, his come streaming, eventually running out even if his orgasm continued.

Dots spotted his vision, the ceiling lights flashing in and out. His arms fell listlessly to the side, mouth slack, fatigued beyond anything he’d ever felt in the past. Still, he swam in his climax.

“Chris…”

And then Christopher released him with a whimper, head thrown back as he came with a gritted shout.

Tom’s head felt so heavy, but he watched Christopher through slitted eyes, the red flush of his cheeks. My own blood, Tom thought dazedly, seeping into him.

Panting, Christopher remained locked above him, pumping lazily, wringing out small bursts of pleasure from even Tom, small remnants of his orgasm.

Collapsing, Christopher flattened himself against Tom, who took the brunt of his weight with a hardly a blink. He felt so strange, his skin buzzing, muscles twitching.

After a moment, Christopher shuffled up again. “Tom?”

“…yes?” His breaths sounded ragged.

Christopher took his head in both hands and made Tom face him. “Shit, baby. Are you okay?” Eyes, blue again, widened when he saw Tom’s neck. “Oh, god.”

Tom would have lifted a hand to feel for himself, but he hadn’t the strength.

“Is it…terrible?”

Christopher looked around the room, slightly wild. “Just…just hang on.” And then he was gone, a flash of color disappearing to where Tom couldn’t follow.

He lay still, chest rising and falling, the warm puddle of come in his pants adding to his discomfort.

“Darling,” he whispered, so faint, arm flopping to the side, hand opening and closing weakly.

“Here, I’m here,” Christopher called and then appeared before him, clutching the first aid kit and a box of biscuits.

Tom had it in him to smile. “Where did you…get those?”

“Neighbors,” Christopher said, frowning as he fumbled with the latch on the kit, setting aside clean wipes and ointments.

“Mmm, I thought you took a few seconds longer than usual.”

Christopher scowled, working on Tom’s neck. “How are you joking right now? I could have killed you.”

“Hmm. But you didn’t. You responded to me. You said my name. And you listened. Well, only a little bit.”

Christopher said nothing, but continued to dab at his skin gently. He spread some ointment and then fixed a bandage in place.

“I think…” Tom started, winded. “I think you…took too…much.”

Christopher’s eyes snapped to his, angry. “You think?”

“Oh, don’t be angry, darling. You’re going to…turn me on…again.” He giggled quietly and then fell quiet with a groan.

A smile tugged on Christopher’s lips, as much as he tried to remain stern. “Now look who’s giggly and tossed.”

He picked up the soiled cloths and disappeared for two seconds. He returned with clean hands, popping open the bag of biscuits. “Eat some of these.”

“Mphmp, don’t wanna,” Tom said, turning his face away, a lance of pain shooting down his neck. He hissed and Christopher leaned over him, eyes drawn down in worry.

“You have to. It’s what they always make people eat after they donate blood. Keep the sugar high. Something like that. Please, babe. Eat a little bit.”

Tom’s brows drew together delicately, eyes still closed. “My belly hurts.”

Cupping his hand over the one Tom had curled over his stomach, he soothed him quietly. He nudged his nose along Tom’s temple.

“I’ll take care of you. Come on.” Tucking the cookies into his back pocket, Christopher wrapped his arms under Tom’s knees and around his shoulders, and then straightened, pulling him up to his chest.

Tom whimpered, startled. He clung to Christopher’s shoulders, cheek to cheek, their stubble rasping.

It seemed Christopher had done more than Tom thought while away for those few seconds. The tub in the master bath was steadily filling. He could hear it, faintly, as Christopher set him down on the edge of the bed, fussing with Tom's jeans, unbuckling them.

"Lie back, steady now, babe," he said, helping to ease Tom to the mattress. Tom let himself be lowered, wincing against the vertigo. His jeans and boxers were removed, and he grumbled at the feel of cool air on the rapidly drying come spread along his thighs.

Kisses on his hips, and Tom jerked awake. Christopher's blond head was bent low on his belly, kissing his abdomen, his waist, rising to breathe over his chest, reverent. Hovering, he touched Tom's hair gently.

"You're gorgeous."

Tom blinked and cast his eyes down.

Christopher smiled and nuzzled his ear. "Do that again and I'll kiss you."

Tom kept his lashes lowered, a smile tugging on his lips.

"Fuck, if that's not hot," Christopher said, bracing his weight on his hands and lowering his lips. They kissed, slow and full, tongues brushing. Dizzy again, Tom whined quietly, his energy sapped.

"Okay, baby, okay." Christopher tucked his arms under him. "Ready?"

Tom nodded and Christopher picked him up again. Naked, his head lolled gently on Christopher's shoulder. Holding on tight, Tom was lowered into the warm water, sighing as it swallowed him whole, hips, upper back, shoulders. He sank in, coming to rest at the bottom of the porcelain tub, feeling a strange kind of contentment knowing this was where Christopher received his daily rest.

The bathroom echoed with loud drips of water, steam rising to the ceiling, fogging up the mirrors. Crouched beside the tub, Christopher cupped his palms and poured water over Tom's exposed chest, careful not to wet the new bandage on his neck. He lathered up some soap, and Tom watched him, brows low, mouth a tight bow of concentration. Plunging his hands under the water, Christopher dragged the bar of soap over Tom's skin, cleaning the dissolving streaks of blood from his chest, wiping down to his belly button, where he dipped a finger teasingly and smiled when Tom jumped and giggled weakly.

Lower to his hipbones, Christopher rubbed the soap, paying extra care to between his thighs, where Tom had spilled earlier. The soft hairs on Tom's legs rose and fell when Christopher massaged them, stroking down to his feet where he rubbed them gently, kneading the hard tendons and lines of each foot, pulling at each toe until they popped.

Tom gasped soundlessly, squirming, his head still spinning from blood loss and overstimulation.

When he was finished, Christopher unstoppered the plug and Tom roused, moving his hands to cup himself, as if he the water hadn't been transparent, as if Christopher hadn't worshipped at his hips and thighs an hour before. Still, a sense of propriety came over him and Christopher smirked.

"Stop," he said, shaking his head and taking Tom under his arms. He lifted him to a standing position with no effort at all, and Tom gave a small cry, holding onto Christopher with trembling fingers. Head resting on his shoulder again, Tom swayed in place, Christopher's arm around his waist like a safety belt almost. He had no worry in the world about falling over. The showerhead turned on and then Christopher was leaning him under the spray, letting the residue of the bathwater flow off him from the chest down in clear rivulets.

Afterward, wrapped in a plush towel, Tom was carried back into the bedroom and tucked under the covers. Christopher was moving away when Tom clasped his wrist.

"Don't go."

"I'll be right back, baby. I need to rinse myself quickly."

Tom had forgotten that part, fatigued as he was by the loss of blood, the most powerful orgasm he'd ever felt, and that toe-curling massage. Reluctantly, he let his wrist go, mumbling thinly, "Okay."

Christopher smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead before zooming into the bathroom.

What felt like the next second, Tom wasn't sure because he closed his eyes and probably passed out, Christopher was flat on his side next to him, also naked. He gathered Tom close.

"Chris...darling. We can have sex again, later, but you cannot bite me again. At least not tonight."

"I'm still trying to figure out if the two aren’t mutually exclusive."

Tom wheezed out a small laugh, feeling as if his bones were lined with lead.

Plastic crackled and then something soft and smelling of cinnamon was tapping on his upper lip.

"Eat one, please."

Tom peeked out of one eye and saw a biscuit in Christopher's hand. "I don't know if I should. I feel nauseous."

"Please? For me?"

He sighed. "Yes, alright." His lips opened and he bit off half of the cookie, crunching it loudly between his teeth. After a few more, Tom was surprised that his stomach started to settle.

The packet of biscuits was put aside and then he felt long fingers in his hair. "The curtains are different."

Tom huffed. "Only a week later."

Christopher cupped his chin, trying to look him in the eye. "No! I noticed them that first night. But I had to get out of here, fast."

Tom yawned. "I know, I know."

Christopher smiled against his hairline. "Did you get them because of me?"

Shifting, Tom settled more comfortably on his side, wiggling his leg between Christopher's knees. "Yes."

"Why, babe?"

Too exhausted to roll his eyes, Tom sighed. "Because I think about you sleeping in that tub day after day, and how uncomfortable it probably is. And I think about how this bed is perfectly big enough for the both of us. And because I really like how you held me that night before you woke up with your shark eyes. And because I want you to stay."

Christopher held still, grazing Tom's skin just beneath his ear. "You really mean that?"

"Mmm. Truly." It was getting harder to fight the pull of sleep, tugging as it was on his eyelids, heavy like a wool blanket on his body.

There were several moments of silence, and then out of the dark, "Tom."

Blinking his eyes open, Tom stirred. "Yes, love."

Christopher hesitated at that. And then, "I can feel your blood singing in my veins, baby. Like sparks of light."

Tom had the sudden image of the shooting sparks one sees in welding yards or mechanics' shops, and he thought he might know what Christopher meant.

"Hmm...you feel that whenever you drink from someone?"

This time, the hesitation was longer, like Christopher was ruminating something. "No," he eventually said, voice low with curiosity and something akin to awe. "No, I never have."

Before he could offer some kind of consolation, Tom's body went completely limp, coming to rest on Christopher with a resigned exhale, succumbing to sleep at last.

**

Someone shook his shoulder, and Tom groaned.

"Tom."

"Hmmph?"

"Baby, wake up."

Tom covered his face. "God, why in the hell for?"

"You are so grumpy in the morning."

Muffled,

"Oh, geez. I wonder if it's because I'm sleep deprived or because someone almost drained me of my blood."

"And snarky. You're snarky."

Tom half sobbed, half groaned. "Am I dreaming...what is this?"

A hand tugged on his wrists. "It's almost dawn. I can feel it."

Sluggish, Tom's eyes cracked open. He squinted, making out Christopher's looming shadow over him, and the faint green-gray light of a pending sunrise.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A little over seven hours."

"And you lay here with me?"

"Yes."

Tom touched his cheek. "Darling."

"You said my name a few times."

"I'm sure I was dreaming that I was angry at you over something."

Christopher smiled and bent to kiss him, and then groaned, swaying over Tom.

"Whoa," Tom said, catching him by his shoulders. "It's happening now, isn't it?"

Christopher nodded, lying flat on his back, Tom rising to kneel over him. Wide-eyed, Christopher stared at the curtained window, doubt and a fair share of fear, plain on his face.

Tom followed his gaze. "No, don't worry about that. The curtains work. I've had them for a week now. It gets as dark as a tomb in here." Still looking unconvinced, Christopher exhaled, jaw clenched.

"Just a few more seconds now. But listen babe, I've never gone to sleep with a human beside me. Please, Tom, if I start to act weird, or threatening, you need to get out. Promise me."

"Okay, darling. Okay. But why would you act threatening?"

Christopher's eyes were closing, but he struggled to stay conscious, head moving side to side. "I don't know. I don't know how I will react. If we have like...defense mechanisms...or something. Just...at the first sign of something weird...get out. Okay?" He gripped Tom's arm and lifted up a bit, eyes starting to glaze over. But he was desperate, intent, on getting Tom's promise.

"I will," Tom said, and Christopher's eyes shut slowly, relieved. He relaxed against the pillows heavily, limbs losing all tension. He was unconscious within seconds, his hold on Tom's arm loosening until his hand flopped to the bed. His worried features went slack, golden strands loose around his face.

Thinking that his ponytail might be uncomfortable for him, Tom reached out slowly and turned Christopher's head to the side, slipping the tie from his hair. Heavy and thick, his hair fanned out on the pillow. Tom finger combed it softly.

It really did seem like he shut down entirely. No breath moved his chest, no pulse showed at his neck. Tom leaned down and placed an ear to Christopher's sternum, expecting to hear what any person might. A heart. A drum sound-sounding his life to the world. But it was deadly quiet inside that ribcage and Tom swallowed, suddenly unnerved.

He studied him for a few minutes, and when Christopher made no sudden, jarring movements, like corpses do in every horror film ever, Tom took the sheets and brought them back over him and Christopher. He lay down beside him, and started with a hand on his chest, and then he inched closer, sliding a leg to rest between Christopher's knees, and then he finally shuffled over and side hugged him, head tucked into his neck.

It was Sunday. He could sleep in a few more hours. Snuggling down, he ignored the heartbeat-less chest beneath him, and closed his eyes.

**

Mid-morning, Tom woke and stretched. His neck itched terribly, and so he tore the gauze from his bite wound, tossing it on the side table to dispose of later.

He'd been practically draped over Christopher when his eyes blinked open, and he thought that Christopher must have been able to feel that, because his arm was thrown across Tom's waist. He knew Christopher had to have some kind of cognizance, remembering how he'd heard growling from within the bathroom that one time Tom had kicked at the door.

Leaning up on an elbow, Tom whispered, "Can you hear me, Chris? Darling?"

No reaction, and then Tom sat up, peering close. Christopher's dark blond brows twitched, smoothing over after a moment. It was enough for Tom, whose heart soared. He kissed him on the cheek and crawled to the edge of the bed, still a bit woozy.

The curtains worked perfectly. They held the sun's rays at bay, leaving only the faintest outline around the edges. His room looked like a cave, shadows obscuring everything, casting a continuous gloom from floor to ceiling.

He tiptoed to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. His neck was bruised again, but it wasn't as drastic as the first time. It was the size of a golf ball instead of the state of Texas, but at least he should be able to hide it beneath the collar of his shirt. Still, he fixed another bandage over it, just in case.

Feeling ravenous, he opened the fridge, in the mood for an omelet. Only, there were no eggs. Or much of anything else, he saw.

He returned to Christopher’s side, brushing back his hair, and whispered, “I’ll back, darling. Going for food.” He kissed his forehead and then fussed with the curtains, making sure no light could creep in. After changing into some jeans and a black sweater, Tom grabbed two B12 vitamins on the way out, tossing them back with a bottle of water.

Visiting the grocery store while hungry was proving to be an exercise in futility. Everything looked so good, and before he knew it he had a cart loaded with meats, and vegetables, and fruit, and cereal, and eggs, and milk, and juices, and bread, and jams and butters. After paying, he stopped by the bakery and bought some fresh pastries, sugar dusted and sticky. Back at the house, he stored everything where it needed to go, refrigerator or pantry, and then cooked himself an omelet. Sitting at the table, he read through the newspaper and nibbled on one of the pastries, a cup of coffee by his side.

He ate nothing for lunch and dinner, entirely absorbed in the new novel he’d bought just before Christopher had crashed into his life. It had sat on his bookshelf for weeks. Now, curled up on the armchair by the front window, Tom hardly realized how quickly the hours had passed, his coffee cup long empty.

It wasn’t until he turned the final page and closed the book that he saw the time on the mantle. The sun had set and darkness shrouded the rest of the living room outside of his circle of light from the lamp beside him.

“Chris?”

Setting the book down, he got to his feet and made his way down the hall, leaving the small bubble of light behind, feet sliding along the tiles, soft as a whisper.

“Chris?” he said again, because there was something disquieting about how still the house had become. Or was it always like that, as he'd sat reading in his chair, legs tucked up, his belly growling? Either way, it felt good to hear a voice, even if it was just his own. Preferably, he wanted to hear Christopher’s.

The bedroom, he discovered upon cracking open the door, was empty. Sheets mussed, the pillow still held an imprint of where Christopher had lain. The drapes were pushed aside and the window was closed, but unlocked. Sighing, he crossed the room and pulled at the material until they fell seamlessly together again. He didn’t know how he and Christopher would be able to get on most of the time, as their schedules were so different. While Tom wasn’t opposed to sleeping in a couple more hours, lying beside him for company, he certainly couldn’t while away his time napping. As soon as he recovered from his blood loss, he intended to resume his running, catch up on more of his reading, perhaps even take up one of his coworker’s offers of a pint after work. Oh, but who was he kidding. He was a solitary creature, very much as Christopher had been forced to become. The man was obviously friendly, and so was Tom, of course, polite and always kept his manners. But there was something about Christopher that gave Tom the impression that he was _out going_. Had been, at least. Something Tom had never been able to fully master.

And now, cut off from his friends, his family, Christopher was suffering through a forced kind of isolation that must be terribly taxing; a kind of isolation that would not have been trying for Tom in the least. He would have reveled in it. Perhaps he should have been the vampire, and Christopher the human.

He paused, hands stilling in the sheets as he shook them out. What would such an existence be like? Besides the blood and the dying every morning, what would it entail? A certain amount of anonymity? Tom could surely handle that. Was it painful to turn? The whole process of it? Christopher had said that his maker had been cruel to him. Jealous and possessive, for however short a time he’d spent in his company. And the vampire community, if one could call it that, seemed rather hesitant to accept Christopher, an ornery group from what Tom could tell. Perhaps Christopher was better off without them. Except for possible information on how to exist in their new natures—something they seemed unwilling to divulge—Tom couldn’t see the reason for wanting to be in league with them. Did they protect each other? Hardly seemed to be the case with Christopher, leaving him out alone, a fledgling practically, to fend for himself.

Poor darling, Tom thought, tucking the sheets in, leaving them loose by the pillows. But how to help him? There would probably be loads of information online. They could start there. Test all the theories on him. The crosses. The garlic. The holy water. The mirrors. But he’d already seen Christopher’s reflection, so scratch that one out.

It was a start, regardless. Because he didn’t like seeing Christopher so mired in his confusion, in his guilt. He knew he wanted to control his urges. And Tom truly believed that simply took time and practice, like everything else. There was no on or off switch for desires. Tom had learned that the hard way.

He could still see Peter’s face, the shock, and then the outrage. The hand on Tom’s chest, pushing him away, coldly.

“I am not of that inclination, Thomas. I had thought you knew me better.”

I thought I had too, Tom thought, closing his eyes in pain at the memory. Peter had quietly, clinically, removed himself from Tom’s life, severing connection in all form. Phone number changed. Email address cancelled. He even moved from his apartment, probably thinking that Tom would look for him there. And Tom had, to his great shame, but only once. A young girl was living in Peter’s old unit, a girl with straight black hair and a poodle that yapped at Tom from the window facing the street.

They had been friends. Dining out together, visiting the tourist attractions, despite being native Londoners. Tom hadn’t meant to feel anything for Peter, but it was like one day, out by Buckingham Palace, he’d looked over at Peter, hair fluttering off his forehead in the crisp breeze, nose slightly red, staring through the gates at the mighty structure where their sovereign lived, Tom had felt a stirring in his chest that had grown every time they met at this or that site, on this or that tour bus, examining this or that relic. It was such a fun and interesting time for Tom, learning about their nation’s history next to someone who shared his interests, who was beautiful, and who laughed with Tom so unreservedly.

But that was over now, and whatever Tom might have imagined to happen between them would never be, so there was no point in dwelling on it.

Ever since then, Tom had been careful with his feelings, with what he revealed to people, how close he allowed himself to become with others. The hurt was still too fresh, remembering the veil that had drawn over Peter’s eyes, the very moment Tom saw him make his decision to remove Tom from his life.

It wasn’t worth it. Most things never were.

Frankly, it was only because Christopher had been so open in showing his attraction to Tom—completely unexpected and something of a rush—that Tom had felt comfortable reciprocating, albeit with some hesitation. He liked the man, absolutely, but if Christopher hadn’t shown it first, Tom might never have, preferring to live alone with his want rather than be subjected to so humiliating a rejection again.

As it was, he was rather enjoying the attention and affection Christopher was showing him. Save for the biting and the blood drinking and the downright fear Tom sometimes felt, he might be able to imagine how he and Christopher could have engaged in a lovely and normal relationship. Would Tom have ever wandered into the restaurant where Christopher cooked? Bumped into him on the Underground? Or maybe it would have been a run-in on the street, a look given a moment too long, the passing breeze that carried the smell of his cologne, perhaps, turning back to catch the other looking, too.

It was a bit fanciful to think that way—Tom often left that sort of imagining to the safety of his novels—but still, there were moments he caught himself adrift in some small fantasy, a smile playing on his lips, the wonderment of it all, soaking it in. It was with a bit of regret that he brought himself out of it, chiding himself for wanting something that couldn’t be.

But as he sat at the edge of the bed, the curtain slanting silver in the moonlight, he wondered if he and Christopher might have a shot at actually surviving this.

**

The next few weeks passed in the same fashion. Tom’s bruise went away, and he often caught Christopher staring at it, longingly, fearfully. He hadn’t bitten him again, but there were a couple of times he came close to it, moaning despairingly at the scent of Tom.

They made out nearly every night. Christopher would corner Tom in the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the back porch, all hands and lips and power thighs. They would only rut together, both too hesitant to go further in fear of what it would mean for the delicate hold Christopher had on his urge to bite Tom.

But they progressed a little further each time, stripping to their bare skin, kissing languidly and forcefully, in the biggest hurry and a timeless ease. Christopher loved to crowd over him, hold Tom’s hands above his head or down by his hips, or behind his back, and he wasn’t sure if this was how Christopher usually liked to handle his lovers, or if it was something borne of his new nature. Either way, Tom loved it, loved gasping up into that waiting mouth, immobilized, feeling the strength of him. It was something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time, and he realized with a small whimper how much he’d missed it. The intimacy, the affection, the feel of another body, not quite as warm as he was used to, but it wasn’t deathly cold either. It was comfortable, snuggling up next to him, their skin only a few degrees apart, big hands stroking his hip, curving around his shoulders, enclosing him in.

There were those times Christopher’s eyes went black. When Tom held so still, prey caught in the predator's sight, both watching the other, baited breath, frozen limbs, but then Christopher would blink fast, a tiny ring of blue appearing around the black pupils.

"Tom," he would rasp, and then he would pull Tom close with a renewed desperation, rocking fast against him, both trembling until they came, spurts of come sticky and warm between them. He would repeat Tom's name, over and over, as if it helped to ground him in his goal of not biting, those inky depths threatening to overcome the sliver of blue in his eyes, the last of the control Christopher managed to keep when they were so physical.

When Tom was ready for bed every night, he left a space to the side of him, knowing Christopher would lie down with him, admitting that not only did he like to have Tom close to him, but that his bed was infinitely more comfortable than his bathtub. Plus, he'd divulged once that Tom's body heat acted as a sort of balm, a reminder of a time before his transformation when his own body was as warm, as alive and soft.

They decided one night to try researching Christopher's condition and discover what antiquated or popular form of repellant did or didn't work against him. Flopping down on the sofa, Tom opened his laptop and pulled up a search engine.

"What do I look up? Vampirism?"

Christopher, sniffing along his hair, drew away with an apologetic shrug and said, "Good a place to start as any."

Over a million links appeared and Tom whistled, only slightly overwhelmed.

Clicking through them, he started muttering aloud. "Age-old myth...creatures of darkness...evil-doers..." He looked up at Christopher's face, at the brows pulled up in surprise, the drooping blue eyes. He scoffed. "Evil-doer, please." Still he continued, and on a separate blank document, he started copying and pasting what supposedly empowered a vampire and what would mortally wound them.

In the end, he closed out of the browser and read aloud. "Strengths: super speed, super strength, mind reading, predatory senses/skills, morphing into bats. Not quite sure how that's a strength, but we'll move on," Tom muttered. Christopher elbowed him playfully, and Tom, in a random spur of playfulness, bent double with a groan, feigning severe pain. Christopher sat up, panic in his eyes, hands held out helplessly. And then Tom started laughing, face scrunched.

"You little trickster," Christopher growled, jumping over Tom and tickling his ribs. Tom cackled and squirmed, begging for mercy.

Breathing hard, they drew apart, eyes fixed on the other, Tom's heart racing. Christopher placed a hand over Tom's neck, the pulse there drumming loud, and then nudged at his shoulder with his forehead, like how a great big horse would show affection to its master.

"You scared me," he whispered. Tom cupped his head and hugged him with his free arm.

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to make you panic. I couldn't pass up the chance, though. Do you feel any change in your strength from before and after?"

Christopher shrugged, keeping his head resting on Tom's shoulder. "A bit. I do feel stronger. I've never tested it, though. I feel...limitless. Like I could endure nearly anything. Outrun anyone. Lift anything. I just haven't tried."

"Well then, we'll have to do that, won't we?"

Christopher nodded and they continued.

"Weaknesses: sunlight, crucifixes, holy water, churches, mirrors, garlic. Wooden stakes."

Christopher rolled his eyes.

Tom shivered. "Perhaps 'wooden stakes' is applicable to pretty much everyone, don't you think? But I'd prefer not to test it out, all the same."

"What should we start with then?" Christopher asked.

"Holy water and churches are two birds we can kill with one stone. Mirrors is out because we've both seen your reflection. Garlic I'm sure you'll acquire illegally from somewhere."

Christopher elbowed him again.

Tom closed his laptop. "Let's go to church."

Sighing, Christopher dropped his head back against the sofa cushions. "Fine, but we've got to do something fun after."

**

Growing up, Tom hadn't been overly exposed to religion. There had been Christmas functions at the local Presbyterian, where he would sing carols with the other children, itchy in his starched suit and tie. Or Easter sermons followed by tea and biscuits in the gardens. Attendance to these kinds of events had waned as he grew older, especially after his parents' deaths, and he hadn’t set foot inside a church in years.

Taking to the Underground, Christopher at his side, Tom pulled up a Google search on his phone.

"Closest Catholic church is mid-town. Four blocks from here. Saint Etheldreda’s."

Christopher hummed and took hold of a metal bar, the train rocking as it started forward through the tunnels. Tom noticed his clenched jaw, the way his blue eyes darted over the other passengers, knuckles white.

“You’re alright,” Tom murmured, trying to assure him. He stepped close. “Focus on me.”

Christopher took a shallow breath, as if trying to avoid inhaling the mixed scents of the car, and then gave a terse nod, staring at the floor the rest of the way. The train wasn’t as packed as Tom had expected. There were only half a dozen people, but he stayed close to Christopher, standing before him, facing each other. He slipped a hand around Christopher’s waist under his jacket, and they made the trip in silence, Christopher appearing not to have taken a single breath the entire time.

At their stop, Christopher exited the train faster than Tom thought was probably wise, but he followed as quickly as he could, catching up to Christopher leaning against a pillar.

“Easy,” Tom said, touching his elbow.

“We need to walk home after this,” Christopher whispered, glancing at him. His pupils were big, but not alarmingly so. “Okay?”

“We should have taken my car,” Tom said. “I didn’t think, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault.” Christopher took a deep breath and then straightened. “I think I’m okay now. I doubt the church will be full of people. Not at this hour.”

Tom checked his watch. “A quarter to eight. I hope it’s still open.”

As they approached the church, the façade rising to a single point topped by a cross, Tom could see that it was bracketed on both sides by buildings he was unsure were part of the church or purely domestic. A flickering golden glow showed in the lower windows, bouncing off the neighboring buildings. That, added with voices raised in song, gave Tom chills.

On the pavement outside, he and Christopher stopped and looked down. A set of stairs led to a lower level entrance, unseen from the street. Made of ancient stone and cobbled steps, the place looked to be hundreds of years old. Indeed, the gold plaque mounted on the wall described more of the church’s history.

“Built in the 1200’s,” he murmured, feeling Christopher behind him. “It’s the oldest Catholic church in England. Go figure. If this place doesn’t do something to you, none will.”

Christopher said nothing, only stared down at the entrance, where the voices had quieted.

“Can you tell how many people are in there?” Tom asked, taking his hand. Christopher squeezed his fingers, narrowing his eyes.

“I can hear nineteen heartbeats.”

“Must be the end of a service. It’s eight o’clock now.” As soon as he said this, shadows rose over the window and the door was pushed open. People started filing out. Tom pulled Christopher over to the side of the building. “Let it empty out. And we’ll slip in after, alright?”

Christopher nodded, pulling out a switch blade and flicking it open and closed, clearly nervous. Tom counted fourteen people leave, which left five more inside. The priest, probably. And stragglers.

“Ready?”

Christopher stashed his blade and followed Tom down the steps, hesitating just before the scarred wooden door.

“Have you felt anything so far? Any kind of resistance?”

“None. But we’ve only been outside. I’d like to go in, just to make sure.”

Tom peeked around the door. A priest was at the altar, folding garments of some kind, and two teenagers in white robes were filing down the nave, smothering candles with a bell-shaped device. Two people still knelt in the pews, heads bent in prayer.

“Stick close to me,” he whispered, slipping inside and heading to the back. It was surprisingly cool inside, the high stone walls punctuated by tall stained glass windows keeping the heat of the candles from becoming overwhelming. There was a long wooden bench lining the narthex, facing in toward the altar, and they headed there, eyes wide on their surroundings. Heavy statues of saints, four on each side, kept vigil over the interior of the church, and Tom eyed them, wary of their penetrating gazes.

The priest was gone when he looked toward the altar, and the two teenagers were back in the apse, just out of sight. Hanging from clear wires hung a heavy wooden crucifix, the head of Christ sagging in agony.

“Want to walk up the aisle?” Christopher stood stiff beside him, hands stuffed in his pockets, slightly hunched over, eyes on the ceiling.

“Looming, isn’t it?” he whispered, and Tom agreed. Christopher shrugged. “Not exactly oppressive, but there’s something daunting about it. All this space. All this stone. The glass and the candles. It’s eerie.”

]“Forget going up the aisle. Let me go find some holy water and I’ll be right back.”

There was a silver basin of water just before entering the main apse and Tom beckoned Christopher over. Leaning against a pillar, he watched as Tom dipped his pointer and middle fingers into the liquid and then faced Christopher.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Do it,” Christopher said, eyes darting over the inner church.

With his dry hand, Tom smoothed back the flyaway strands of hair from Christopher’s forehead, cupping his cheek quickly. And then before he lost his nerve, he lifted his wet fingers and very gently pressed them to Christopher’s brow, drawing a rudimentary cross over the cool skin there.

Nothing happened.

A drop of holy water spilled down the bridge of Christopher’s nose, and Tom swallowed hard, unable to look away. With the flickering candlelight and Tom’s sudden burst of emotion in his chest, it could easily be mistaken for a real tear.

His own eyes filled and he licked his lips. “Anything?”

Christopher stood to his full height, taking Tom’s wrist and drawing his hand away. The cross Tom had drawn over his forehead gleamed in the trembling light, but no harm was done to him. No burning or bleeding. His skin remained smooth and clear, and it wasn’t until he saw it with his own eyes did Tom realize how worried he’d been about the holy water.

Without another word, he took Christopher’s hand and led him from the church, up the stairs and out into the street.

Christopher put his hand on his hips and laughed, face turned up at the moon. “Fuck. I expected searing pain.”

Tom smiled and crossed his arms. “So, churches and holy water, check.”

Christopher turned to him. “Honestly, I feel those were my biggest worries. What else do we have to disprove? Garlic? If this,” he said, gesturing to the ancient church behind them, “did nothing, then what can? Nothing but the sun.”

“And other vampires,” Tom added quietly. Christopher frowned and stepped close.

“You worry about me.”

“Yes.”

“But nothing can stop me.”

“You’re getting a false sense of immortality, Chris. The sun and other vamps can harm you. Kill you.”

Christopher’s face softened. “I’ll be careful,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

They walked further into the city, Tom tucked under Christopher’s arm. They kept to the more quiet streets, avoiding certain parts of downtown that had teeming crowds walking about.

“How will we test your strengths?” Tom wondered.

Christopher chuckled. “Well, we already know I’m super fast. I’m pretty strong too.”

“But how strong?”

“I can lift you up. Spin you over my head, if I wanted.”

Tom leaned away. “Please don’t.”

“But I could. And that’s the point. I can feel it.” Checking both ways, he pulled Tom into an alley and proceeded to lift him over his head. Tom gasped, clutching at Christopher’s wrists, his big hands planted right over his chest, holding him up in the air like one would a toddler. Christopher’s face was bled white in the moonlight, smile large and smug.

“Put me down,” Tom breathed, afraid to raise his voice higher lest Christopher drop him and he break a leg. “I get it. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

Grinning, Christopher set him down and Tom rubbed his chest, the imprint of those hands sore on his skin.

“You’re light as a feather. Maybe I can even lift a whole car!”

“Let’s not,” Tom said, dusting off his jacket. “Some poor bloke walks out of a pub and his car is in pieces on the road.”

“I would set it down gently.” He scowled and took Tom’s hand. “Hey, you promised me something fun after this. It’s Saturday night. What happens around here?”

Tom followed him out of the alley. “I haven’t been out in so long…” He remembered a park that he and Peter had visited. A festival of sorts, there were live band performances every Friday and Saturday night around this time of year, with food stalls and beer vendors and a carousel. He remembered riding the last carousel spin with Peter, other adults jumping on and laughing with them.

He cleared his throat and saw Christopher staring at him funny, face frozen in something like muted surprise. Quickly, he explained about the park.

Christopher blinked. “Okay,” he said after a moment.

Fingers laced, Tom led the way, strolling through the park gates nearly a half hour later. It was as he remembered. Music, children laughing, drinking and carnival rides.

“Will this be alright for you?”

Christopher sniffed, looking up at the treetops. “I think so, yeah. The open air is a big help.”

They followed the line of people into the middle of the park, lit with lights and pulsing with music. A million scents crashed over Tom: popcorn and roasting meat and bubble gum cotton candy machines and caramelized apples and a hundred other foods waiting to be tasted. His mouth watered.

“You hungry?” Christopher asked, smiling.

Tom shrugged. “A bit. Those turkey legs look—.”

Christopher was gone and Tom gaped, staring at the empty space beside him. And then Christopher was back, holding a juicy turkey leg in one hand.

“Did you really just—.”

“Yes.” Christopher stared at him, nonplussed. “You’re hungry. It’s no big deal.”

Tom sighed and accepted the food. “Thank you, Chris. You’re more on top of my needs than I am.”

Still, as they passed the booth selling the turkey legs, Tom slipped a couple of bills into the tip jar. He chewed on the dripping meat, his mouth alight in its sweet juices, and moaned quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Christopher stared, fascinated.

“Wantsum?” Tom mumbled, mouth full.

Christopher’s eyes dropped. “No, but thanks.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Tom said, recovering. “I forget—.”

“I do, too,” Chris interrupted. “I forget all the time.”

“Darling,” Tom whispered, snaking his hand into Christopher’s.

Christopher’s eyes drifted away. “Let’s find a spot to sit and watch the bands.”

The stage was set in a flat field of grass, apart from the main festival so the music wouldn’t be too loud for the crowds. People spread out on blankets, pillows and cushions stuck under bottoms and heads. Some guys on stage were crooning over acoustic guitars and a full-sized bass, of all things. Tom and Christopher hung back from everyone, finding a low-limbed tree and perching on one of the branches. Tom finished his turkey leg and dropped the bone to the ground where stray dogs would find it.

“Tom, can I ask you something?”

Tom turned to him. “Of course, darling.”

Christopher bit his lip and stared down at the grass. “Who’s Peter?”

Tom blinked, his pulse jumping. Christopher’s eyes shifted to him, but he said nothing.

“How do you know that name?” he whispered, music forgotten entirely.

Christopher shrugged. “I just do.”

“But _how_?”

“I just do, alright?” He ran a hand over his hair. “It’s…it’s like it floated out of your head earlier, and I picked up on it.”

“Earlier?” And then Tom remembered; thinking about the park and when he’d been there last. It was with Peter. And Christopher had read his mind.

“Holy shit.” He stood and faced Christopher. “You read my mind.”

Christopher scoffed. “I wouldn’t go so far as to—.”

Tom pointed a finger. “You did. You fucking did. And—and now…shit, that was on our list, wasn’t it?”

Christopher flicked his gaze away, refusing to commit. “Maybe.”

“It was!” He spun in a circle. “But, oh my god. Do you know what this means?”

Christopher’s face hardened slightly. “That I can finally get my answers to all that you keep from me?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Tom said distractedly, trying to remember more of what they’d researched that night. Christopher stared at him. Tom stopped pacing. “What? I keep nothing from you.”

“Then who’s Peter?”

“He’s nobody. He’s…listen, I’m under no obligation to tell you every single detail of my life—.”

Christopher stood and Tom took a step back.

“I’m asking you,” Christopher said quietly, Tom barely hearing him over the music.

Tom’s shoulders slumped and he sank back down onto the branch. Christopher remained standing, arms crossed.

“Peter was…a friend,” he started, feeling his face flush, the memories still strong enough to hurt. “He used to live nearby. Worked in the illustration department of the publishing company. We got on well. He lived alone. I lived alone. Started doing the touristy things together, visiting all the sites. This was one of them,” he said, gesturing to the festival. “Whatever. Long story short, I came on to him and he rejected me. Saying he wasn’t of that _inclination_.” He spat out the word, remembering how tight his chest had felt hearing Peter say that to him. “He cut me out of his life. Transferred jobs. Moved apartments. He’s gone now, but there are still things that remind me of him, is all.”

He could feel Christopher looking at him, but Tom kept his head down. Tears rose in his eyes, but he swallowed them back, not wanting to give in to the feelings he thought he’d long since buried. “We were such good friends. I liked him so much. But maybe that was it. It wasn’t reciprocated, that much is obvious. I still don’t…know what it was about me that was so repugnant—.”

Christopher knelt before him so fast Tom gasped, sitting back.

“You’re the loveliest man I’ve ever seen. The kindest, the sweetest. You don’t know you’re beauty, but I do. And trust me when I say that you’re fucking hot and Peter was stupidest shit to let you go.”

Tom wiped at his nose, unable to stop the laughter that bubbled up his chest.

“You’re just being nice.”

“I’m serious. And I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you so many things without sounding weird or…or stupid. I like you, Tom. You know this. And this thing that’s happened to me is what allowed me to meet you. The worst thing that’s happened to me is now the thing I’m most grateful for.”

Tom blinked away more tears. “I’m not worth such a—.”

“You are!” Chris crowded closer and took Tom’s face in his hands. “Stop saying you’re not worth it because you are.”

Tom huffed and took a moment to gather himself. “Don’t think this will make me forget about your mind reading abilities.”

Christopher rolled his eyes. “If we can even call it that.” He stood from his crouch and sat beside Tom, anchoring his hand close. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it’d weird you out. It only started recently. Maybe in the last two weeks. But I get this strange line of connection, and I can’t look away at all. And then words will just pop into my head, bright white. I can read them like I’d read something in a book.”

“And Peter’s name popped up for you?”

“Yes. And the park. And some of the details you went on to explain”

“Amazing. Can you do it with anyone?”

“Sometimes. Right now words just come at me, walking in the street, waiting in the shadows. But maybe if I concentrate enough, I can get more information.”

“What am I thinking now?” Tom thought of his favorite childhood toy: a yellow ball with a Spiderman sticker stuck on it.

“Spiderman ball,” Christopher said.

Tom laughed. “I can’t believe it!”

“Another,” Christopher said, excited.

A red sailboat, the moon, his first car, the purple blanket he used to sleep with at university. Christopher guessed them all correctly. To throw him off, Tom thought up an image of a man in a tight Speedo, oiled and lying down at the beach.

Christopher’s eyes widened and he pulled Tom into a hard hug. “Thomas!”

Tom laughed and let himself be held, both gazing out at the stage.

“It makes me a little uncomfortable, though,” Tom said. “That you can just reach into my mind and pluck out thoughts that I feel should remain private.”

Christopher shrugged. “People are so unguarded with their thoughts these days. With all the electronics and sound frequencies and shit like that. It’s easier to penetrate. Who knows, maybe you not wanting me to is enough to keep your thoughts safe.”

Tom considered this, and then tried something. He thought of a penis. A big, thick one. Erect and veiny. Maybe one just like Christopher’s might look. He waited to see if Christopher reacted. But he didn’t. He watched the stage, completely unaffected.

“Maybe you’re right,” Tom said softly, smiling. He cuddled closer and leaned his head on his shoulder, humming along to the music.

**

They stayed the rest of the night. The festival started to wind down just after midnight, and they strolled through the thinning crowd.

"Let's go to the water," Christopher said suddenly, and Tom, pleasantly drowsy and content, agreed.

The Thames was all quiet, soft splashes in the dark. The edge of the water was cordoned off with lighted barriers, and they leaned against this railing, elbows touching.

"Personally, I think water does more for you than just bring comfort," Tom said, watching the surface foam and break against the wooden pier.

"I think so too. The burning was too much though, it's hard to tell.” Tom fought off memories of that long ago morning, Christopher tumbling into his bedroom window, half mad with panic, with fear.

"It seemed so natural for you to ask to be placed in water. Instinctual." 

Christopher stayed quiet.

"Well, let's hope you don't have to test that theory again," Tom said.

Christopher suddenly stiffened and turned so fast he startled Tom.

"What is it?"

But Christopher didn't answer, only stared off into the darkened lot that bordered the Thames, the shadows too dense for Tom to make anything out. And then Christopher growled, a low rumbling in his chest, fingers curling into claws. Tom had never really heard him make such a noise. Yes, he'd growled at Tom from behind the bathroom door that one time, but it wasn't nearly this threatening, this dangerous. A warning. Christopher's back was held tense, muscles bunched, and Tom wondered what his eyes looked like, if they were black.

Before he could so much as blink, Christopher took his hand and they were running through the streets. At the nearest pub, Christopher searched behind them, keeping Tom not more than a foot from him.

"Get a cab," he ordered.

"A cab. Are you joking? The price at this hour—."

Christopher rounded on him. "Get...a cab."

Tom backed away, mouth drying. He turned and lifted an arm, flagging down the closest cab. One pulled up to the curb and they piled in.

"Buckingham Palace," Christopher announced.

"Aye," the driver answered, turning his steering wheel and looking out the windshield, bored out of his mind.

 _What's wrong?_ Tom thought, looking at Christopher pointedly.

Christopher blinked, shaking his head. Still concerned, Tom was also half giddy with the idea that he and Chris suddenly had a whole new way of communicating, even if it was only one way. He, of course, hadn't suddenly been gifted with the ability to mind read.

At Buckingham Palace, Tom paid the driver and then they found the closest entrance to the Underground, slipping into the next available train. Christopher dragged Tom to a corner seat, the train noticeably more empty so early in the morning.

Pushed into the corner, Christopher's bulk blocking him from the rest of the seats, Tom wondered what could have spooked Christopher so much into fleeing.

 _It was another vamp, wasn't it?_ He thought the question in his head, peering at the other’s face.

Without looking at him, eyes sharp on the other passengers, Christopher nodded.

Tom's heart thudded loudly in his ears, presented with the fact that this other vampire might be following them to his home. But Christopher heard, and no doubt smelled, the spike in his heart rate and turned to him quickly.

"I don't think he's following us," he said, making Tom wonder if he'd read his mind again. "I lost his scent two stops ago."

"What happened? I couldn't see anything."

"He was just standing there. Looking at us. And then he smiled, all slow and shit, fangs sliding out. Gave me the creeps. I had to get you out of there. I didn't know what he wanted."

Tom was suddenly exhausted and he slumped against the seat, closing his eyes. Christopher let him rest, one arm thrown over Tom’s lap, jostled against each other by the speeding train. At their stop, they hurried out of the train and up the few blocks to Tom’s house, which was dark and somber looking.

“How much longer until dawn?” Tom asked, fishing out his keys.

“An hour maybe.” Already the sky was lightening, grey edging in around the horizon.

“You haven’t fed.” Tom stopped and turned to Christopher, door half way open.

“Get inside.” Christopher bolted the door behind them and then took a walk through the house, Tom trailing him.

“Is it safe? This is making me nervous, Chris. This is…" he gestured helplessly around. "This is our home—.”

Christopher stopped and took Tom gently by the shoulders, pressing him to the wall.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m just being overly cautious. I don’t want to miss anything. All these new senses can be overwhelming to me. And I get this weird feeling that something isn’t right, when before maybe I would have ignored it. But it’s not just me anymore. You were with me tonight when he saw me and I don’t want to risk anything because I was careless.” He ran his hands down Tom’s arms, linking their fingers. “Okay?”

Tom nodded and then reached forward, pulling Christopher into a hug.

Christopher held him, stroking his hair. “I won’t let anyone in this house. They’ll regret it.”

Exhausted, Tom climbed into bed with a weary groan. He heard Christopher move around the house, sniffing the air, checking each window lock. And then the door opened and closed and all was quiet. It wasn't light out yet, and Tom figured Christopher had gone to feed before returning to him. He didn't know who the strange man was, or what he wanted with them, but Tom could only assume he was after Christopher. It was unnerving, and alarming, that someone as powerful as Chris could still be vulnerable in some way. That not only stakes or the sun could kill him, but others of his kind.

Tom shifted, restless, half asleep and swimming in his fear for Christopher, for himself and his home. And when the bed dipped beside him a short while later, Christopher was fully clothed, boots laced tight.

"Darling?" Tom murmured, eyes blind in the dark.

"I'm here," Christopher said softly, pulling Tom against him, arms wrapping like a security blanket around Tom's back.

Hands roaming, Tom shifted up, cupping Christopher’s jaw. "You're alright? You're unhurt?"

Warm lips pressed to his forehead. "Yes, baby. I'm okay."

"Did you see him again?"

"No. I lost track of him. But I laid some warnings around your house. They'll know I protect it."

Tom frowned, snuggling against his chest. "What warnings?"

"It's nothing. It's kind of gross. I'll tell you later."

Yawning, Tom nodded lazily. "Okay. I'm exhausted. Nite."

He fell off the edge of consciousness and dreamt of a flaming field of butterflies, pulsing wings rippling across scores of acres until finally the thousands of them burst into flight, blotting out the light of the sun.

Tom startled awake.

The sun shone around the corners of the dark curtains and Christopher was lying over him, dead and unbreathing. Moving carefully, he inched out from under him, settling him face down on the bed. After showering and eating a light breakfast, Tom threw a jacket on and went outside. Christopher said he'd done something to the house. For what? To mark it as his territory? It was with cautious steps that he walked the perimeter of his property, plodding through his overrun garden and peeking over the low wall in the back yard. He could detect nothing untoward, and wondered what Christopher had meant by 'gross'.

Normal sounds like car doors slamming, dogs barking, a shouted greeting across the street, all flooded to him at once, and he felt suddenly uneasy standing out in the open, so exposed and defenseless.

He blinked and looked around, noting nothing amiss. Locking the back door behind him, he went into the bedroom and sat against the headboard with a handful of manuscripts. Touching the tip of his finger to Christopher's cheek, he smiled down at him. But then Christopher twitched suddenly and Tom gasped, heart jumping to his throat.

As if he'd heard it, that erratic skipping beat, Christopher moaned and shifted, nosing along Tom's thigh, a big hand closing around his knee. Tom cupped his head, letting him sniff at his leg, pulse slowing despite the scare he'd given him.

Hunkering down over the first manuscript, he got to work. For hours he read, moving around the bed for comfort, getting up only to use the bathroom or grab a small bite to eat or drink. But he eventually lost all interest in his reading, eyes continuously slipping from the words on the page to the man asleep next to him. Stacking his papers on the floor, Tom stretched out next to Christopher, pressing their knees together, bellies touching. Stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb, Tom memorized every line, caressing his blond brow, tracing the curve of his full lips, kissing the tip of his nose, the sleeping dimple, the dark widow’s peak. It pleased him to pet Christopher, to touch the smooth skin, run a hand over the rounded shoulder, through the golden hairs on his forearm. He loved touching him, and he thought Christopher wouldn’t mind it so much. And so Tom continued with his fondling, leaning in and breathing in his scent of earth and oranges, laying butterfly kisses to the corner of his mouth.

When Christopher woke at sundown, lamplight casting the room in gold, Tom sat waiting, legs folded under him. Christopher blinked around the room and rose on his forearms, zeroing in on Tom after a moment. With black eyes ringed by blue, Christopher's mouth parted and his fangs slid out slowly. Tom swallowed but made no movement to leave.

"Chris," he said softly, and Christopher stopped, body hunched over. "I want to kiss you but...please don't kill me. Okay?"

And with eyes fully blackened, Christopher watched Tom lean close, the smallest purring sound rumbling deep in his chest; watched, lashes full and thick, curled like heavy palm fronds, as Tom closed the space between them and pressed their lips together.

They sat still, bent at the waist toward each other. Breaths shallow, this wasn’t like their previous kisses. This wasn’t hurried and frantic and accompanied by low growls—at least not yet. But Tom could sense the growing excitement in Christopher, both of them panting, blood rising—.

Fast as lightning, Christopher took him by the shoulders and pressed him to the bed, nose buried in his neck. Tom moaned and angled his head away.

“Don’t bite me yet, alright? Just—just wait a little longer, Chris.”

Christopher made a low noise and Tom thought that maybe he understood him. Removing their clothes was the simple part; wide palms skimming up the edge of his shirt, pushing free both cotton and leather; it’s when they were both naked, eyes wide, that it suddenly became more complicated than he originally thought.

“Okay,” he whispered, drawing back from the hungry gaze Christopher leveled him with. “Okay, slow, darling. Come here, come on. Slowly.” Christopher let Tom tug him by the arms, collapsing down over him, kissing his lips hard.

It’s like he’s starving, Tom thought, wrapping him close. And that cock, engorged and wide, would take some getting used to. Tom was half hard, too, his fear like a ribbon around his chest, still loose enough to let him breathe, let him concentrate on the man before him. Christopher seemed content to suck a bruise on his neck, leaning back to watch the blood rise to the surface, bending low to suck at it again. His tongue flicked out to lick at the red skin, and he hummed, fangs flashing in the low lamplight.

Their kisses were gentle and full, tongues twining. With an impatient huff, Christopher’s legs bullied his apart. He rested snugly against Tom’s groin, while outside a wind began to blow against the window. Maybe it would rain, the sprinkles a cadence to which they could come together.

“That’s good,” Tom murmured, gasping. “That feels good, darling, just like that.”

“Tom,” Christopher whispered, trailing a fang along his artery.

“Not yet, darling. Lie back for me. That’s it.” He pushed at Christopher’s shoulders until he was down against the pillows, big hands splayed on the sheets. Tom crawled between his legs and knelt there, cupping his knees gently. “Can you hear me, love?”

Christopher nodded. “Yes, baby. I can.”

Tom grinned. “Good, darling. Relax for me.”

He circled his hand around the root of Christopher’s cock. It was impressive, Tom thought, feeling around the shaft. Wide and thick and veined, he could already imagine what it would feel like spearing him, hard and punishing, a pulse point in his most private core. Mouth watering, he bent and closed his lips around the tip. Christopher hissed and dropped his head back, fingers clutching the sheets. Tom stiffened his tongue and bobbed lower, breathing in his mild musk, hollowing his cheeks and sucking harder. He bobbed his head, loosening his jaw and tightening his lips.

“Fuck,” Christopher sighed, lifting his head and narrowing those onyx eyes on him. “I want to fuck you.”

Tom only hummed and cupped his balls, sliding two fingers along his perineum and down to the cleft of his cheeks. Christopher bucked, thrusting his cock down Tom’s throat. He choked and drew back with a wet cough, wiping his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said, but the hard lines of his muscles, the vibration, the tight way he kept his pelvis down, showed Tom how desperate he was to finish.

Tom crawled up and kissed him, their lips soft and careful, the sharp fangs poking out with a glint. Arms wrapped around his back and then Tom was pressed flat against him, grinding together, their cocks rubbing and throbbing, warm and urgent. Lips strayed to his jaw, mouthing at his neck again, and the arms around him became hard with restraint, anxious to have him closer.

“Here,” Tom said, reaching to the side to open the drawer next to the bed. Christopher growled and tightened his arms around Tom’s waist. Tom froze, and patted his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, love. I promise.” He pulled out the lube bottle he had stashed there and uncapped it quickly. Dribbling a generous amount into Christopher’s palm, he dipped his own fingers in it, rubbing them together for warmth. Christopher licked his lips and watched, those black eyes darting from their hands to Tom’s face. “Like this,” Tom whispered, lying back and spreading lube over his hole. It was only moments before Christopher was draped over him and stretching Tom himself, his thick fingers probing and curling, opening him up. Hands free, Tom writhed and arched his back, his own cock a hard rod on his belly, a sticky drip of precome beading at the tip.

“Slow, please,” he begged quietly, and Christopher glanced at him.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured.

Tom hesitated. “How?”

“You know how.”

“Not yet.” And he realized, quite frankly, that he wasn’t exactly ready for Christopher to give him a blow job, not with those fangs anyway, eyes dark as pitch settled on him, no blue to comfort, to prove that he was really there with him. Maybe later on he would be brave enough to let Christopher taste him there.

Face to face, they lay on his bed, nuzzling and murmuring. When Christopher took himself in hand, Tom breathed deeply, braced and ready.

But still Christopher hesitated.

“I know you’re nervous,” he whispered, pecking at Tom’s lips, his chin and brow. “I can see your thoughts popping like bright flames in my head. _Slow, careful, please…don’t hurt me, is it you is it you is it you_ …”

Tom blinked fast. “I’m just…I want it just as much as you do, darling. I don’t want to be afraid, but your eyes are so black and I can’t tell if you’re here with me or not.”

Christopher cupped his face. “I am. I’m here. I’m fighting it. I promise I won’t hurt you. It’s gotten easier. Just like you said.”

Exhaling shakily, Tom nodded, their fingers lacing. “Okay,” he whispered, and Christopher kissed him again.

With tilted hips and raised head, Tom watched as he guided himself in, the blunt head of his cock squeezing into his hole.

“Ah, _god_ ,” Tom moaned, dropping his head, eyes blurry with tears. He was so thick, Tom felt stretched beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Part pain, part desperately needing more, Christopher pushed in further, inch after inch, jaw clenched in concentration. He wanted blood. Tom knew that. And he fully intended to give him some, but what they were developing was important to what they hoped to nurture as a couple, to the control Christopher was trying to master, the tentative hold he had on his craving for blood and his desire to drink from Tom, to love him both physically and emotionally. It was still so fledgling and tentative, and the longer he held out, the better it would be.

Holding still, Christopher held his face up, long throat flexing, mouth parting, a visible ripple coursing through his limbs. And then he started moving, holding himself up on both arms. Tom circled his elbows, fingers gripping him, encouraging. Pumping his hips, Christopher soaked in every detail of his face, stooping to kiss his mouth, biting gently at Tom’s lower lip, growling low. Tom smiled and wrapped his legs around his waist. Learning his rhythm, mimicking it and matching it, they rocked on the bed, grunts and slaps of skin filling the warm silence.

“Still with me?” Tom whispered, brushing back Christopher’s hair.

Christopher nodded, lips snarled, teeth gleaming as he flicked his gaze from Tom’s face to his throat. And then he scooped Tom into his arms and pressed their cheeks together, fucking into him harder than before.

Tom cried out and arched, sparks alighting in his blood. Christopher groaned and kept at that pace, nose pressed to Tom’s artery. Clinging, Tom stared at the ceiling, vision swimming with tears. He smiled, smoothing his hands down that broad back, the long dip of spine, the ample curve of muscle, it all made Tom dizzy with need. And with each thrust, he felt the spiral in his belly tighten and tighten. It had been so long for him, so long since he felt this, so long since he might have imagined having something like this with Peter, so long since he last thought anyone would ever want to know him this way.

Christopher lifted his head and huffed out a strained breath. “I want to know you, Tom. I want to be the only one. You’re mine, okay? I’ll know you until we both die.”

He’d read his mind, read that fear and doubt.

Tears burst over Tom’s sight and he sobbed quietly, Christopher’s lips pressing over his, molding together, shared breath and streaked salt lines. Tom hugged him tight, temples squeezed together. “My god, Christopher. I think I’m in love with you.”

“Baby,” Christopher whispered, looking down at him. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

Their lips crashed again, bodies moving with renewed frenzy, hands in hair, pulling, squeezing.

“Ah!” Tom yanked his head away, tongue darting out to lick at the bead of blood welling on his lip where Christopher’s fang pierced him. And if Tom wasn’t mistaken, Christopher’s eyes became even darker, locked on the drops of blood slowly spreading over Tom’s bottom teeth, inking the pearly white a watery red, and then down to the pulsing vein of his neck.

“Tom… _please_.”

And Tom, feeling wrecked and weightless, nodded once. Christopher moved so fast, turning his head, bending and latching on. He had but a moment to gasp before two sharp points bit into his flesh.

With just the first swallow, that sweet and urgent pull in his blood, the spiral in Tom’s belly snapped and he screamed, the taste of iron blooming over his tongue. His body tightened and he bowed under Christopher, who groaned and thrust harder, burying himself deep. It felt like a shattering, those bubbles of light between each of his heartbeats, where from point of fang to the very tips of his fingers and toes, Tom felt the swell of ecstasy mount and crest over his senses. Christopher thrust again and Tom cried out softly, on the brink of unconsciousness. His vision winked, something bright with stars settling over his sight and he whimpered just as yet another peak of pleasure lapsed over him.

“Chris!”

Shuddering violently, his eyes rolled back and he half thought that maybe he was about to die. Finding the energy for one last movement, Tom cupped the back of Christopher’s neck and sighed before slipping into a warm and lovely darkness.

**

He awoke to a stiff neck and numb legs. Tom blinked, the wall slowly coming into focus like the soft ebb and flow of a distorted sight glass, where he thought vaguely of being stranded at sea, a distant shoreline tempting him with promise. The light was still on and there was someone hunched over him, breaths harsh on his chest.

“Tom?” So hoarse, so full of worry. “Tom!”

Christopher took his face and peered into his eyes.

Aching, Tom blinked, and then moaned. “What happened?” he rasped. He could feel something warm and sticky leaking out of him, and he tried closing his legs, but his thighs only tightened around Christopher’s waist. Needles pricked at his muscles and he shifted, wanting to be rid of the sensation.

“You passed out. Are you okay? Baby, oh my god. I thought I’d killed you.”

Christopher’s eyes were still black, and somewhere in the back of his mind, where logic and sobriety lived, it made Tom happy that he was still coherent in a way.

“Did you come?” he asked with a lazy smile, even the effort to keep his eyes open too much for him.

“The hardest in my entire life,” Christopher whispered, looking down between their bodies. Tom had spilled copiously on his own chest, his orgasm no doubt triggering Christopher, who had spilled inside him. “The sparks, babe. I could see and taste them, like grains of light bubbling between my teeth. It wouldn’t stop. It lasted forever. Every beat of your heart pulled another…I don’t know, _wave_ or something out of me. I think I passed out for a second there.”

“You didn’t…drain me,” Tom said quietly.

Christopher hung his head, and said nothing.

“Hey,” Tom whispered, taking his face and bringing him round. “Hey. Don’t be sad. I’m so proud of you. I’m a little dizzy, but I’m so, so proud of you.”

Christopher smiled, and Tom responded with his own.

“We need to do that again, yeah?”

They laughed quietly, and kissed. Christopher moaned.

“I can still taste the blood on your tongue, babe. From your lip.”

Tom ran the tip of his tongue over the small cut and winced when it stung. “Did you mean to do that?”

Christopher grinned. “No. I’m sorry.”

Tom relaxed back against the bed. “It’s alright. We’re still learning.”

Cuddling down on him, Christopher tucked his face under Tom’s jaw and sighed. “Yeah. We are.”

**

Tom didn’t bother with a shower, but let Christopher wipe between his legs and along his neck, cleaning him of excess semen and blood. Exhausted, he curled around a pillow and slept again. Christopher wandered through the house, going outside at one point and then returning to him around midnight. Tom roused and opened his arms so Christopher could lie with him.

“You never told me,” he whispered. “What you did to the house that was gross.” 

Christopher chuckled, and covered his face with his forearm. “Please don’t make me tell you.”

“Well, you have to now.”

“It’s stupid. But it works.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“I won’t let you drink from me again.”

Christopher gasped and sat up. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

Tom grinned.

“I kinda, sorta, maybe, perhaps…pissed all over your yard.”  
  
It was Tom’s turn to sit up. “You _what_.”

“I told you it was gross!”

“Yes, but pissing! Really, Christopher?”

“Look, it works! I’ve smelled it at certain spots all over the city—.”

“Quite obviously, Chris. The drunk and homeless—.”

“No. Vamp piss smells different. It’s stronger and is used as a warning. We don’t need to piss. Not like humans do. We use it to threaten and to warn.”

Tom fell back against the pillows, muttering. “Unbelievable.”

“You can’t smell it, alright? Don’t go acting like I’m upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”

Tom bristled. “I’m not delicate.”

Christopher softened and planted quick kisses on his cheek. “Compared to me you are. Compared to all of us.”

He huffed and turned away. 

Christopher spooned him from behind. “Don’t be getting mad at me. I love you.”

Tom blushed in the dark, his cheeks flaming. “I love you, too,” he mumbled.

They stayed rounded together, Christopher combing a hand through his curls, scratching at his scalp so that chills broke over Tom’s skin and he whimpered and arched against him for more.

“Your heart beats the loudest,” Christopher said quietly, and Tom hummed in question. “Just before you come. I can always tell when you’re about to release, because your heart practically sings. It pulls at me and I just know,” he breathed, trailing a finger over the still tender puncture wounds on Tom’s neck. “I just know that that’s when I can taste you and it will be the sweetest.”

Tom blinked. “It’s almost like I came from the bite. Does that make sense? I felt I was spiraling and spiraling, but the bite is what pushed me over. It was…it was quite lovely.”

Christopher snuggled closer and slipped his hand over Tom’s.

Before dawn, he had to crawl out the window to feed and Tom rolled into his spot, seeking his scent. In the blurry realm of half-sleep, the threat of that other vamp melted into something unreal, a distant memory, the fear and the malice hazy in the new comfort they’d found in each other. As it was, Christopher was at his strongest. With every night that passed, he admitted to feeling his strength grow, his need for blood wane from desperation to simple desire, more able to control his thirst. That’s not to say that he didn’t struggle with his craving. With a single look in Tom’s direction, the blue of his eyes flooding with black, Tom knew he fought to master his nature. But there was a telling difference between how he was now and how he had been just after falling through his window all those months ago.

After that first night they made love, Tom returned to work and the routine of living with his vampire lover. He would dress in the morning and check his neck for bruises. If any bite wounds were visible, he would take care to wear something with a higher collar or a scarf. He honestly didn’t know what he would do in the summer. Maybe he could convince Christopher to bite him elsewhere.

Now that they’d passed the last physical barrier between them, Christopher was intent on making love to Tom on every available surface of his house. Just after Tom finished cleaning up in the kitchen after a small dinner, he would feel a breeze on his face and then Christopher was pressed against him, lips hard and demanding. He always awoke so rejuvenated as soon as the last glimpse of the sun was drowned in the black of night, so similar to the way the blue of his eyes would be eclipsed by the inky pools of his thirst. The stretching took some patient prompting, Tom usually wincing at his rough haste, but it was the _after_ that had them moaning with desperation, clawing at each other’s skin, bucking and rutting on countertop and tabletop alike, on the living room floor and over the arm of the sofa; against the wall in the hallway, knocking down framed photographs, the crash and splinter of glass barely registering in the fog that overwhelmed them. Bed and bathtub, floor and wall, Christopher took him and drank from him everywhere. They were small sips, nothing like the great gulps he would take at the beginning. Just enough to trigger his and Tom’s orgasms, saving his heaviest drinking for the unsuspecting strangers he would snatch into alleyways and behind seedy bars. He was no longer killing his victims, but learning when to discern the right amount of blood they could give without lying unconscious for hours and bleeding out.

“But won’t they know?” Tom asked one night, hands held above his head as Christopher mouthed at his throat.

“Hmm, know what?”

“Well that a bloody vampire just fed on them.”

Christopher lifted his head. “Oh, so just because I’m a vampire, that means I’m bloody.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get cute.”

Christopher smiled, eyes drooping. “But I can’t help it. And you love me.” He bent at his neck again and resumed bruising his skin.

Tom gasped and tried to stop from shivering. “I do love you, god help me.”

Christopher rumbled a laugh. “And anyway, I just whisper a little lie and it like, seeps into their heads and they forget me entirely.”

This surprised Tom. “Really? And it works?”

Christopher hummed and nicked at his skin with a fang.

Tom arched, eyes fluttering shut. “But what about the punctures?”

A growl met his question, and he knew Christopher was done with the conversation. Feeling mischievous, he clenched his fists and tugged at the grip Christopher had on him. Another growl rose high in the room. He bit his lip to hide his smile, Christopher’s fingers tightening around his wrists, immobilizing him. Tom didn’t need to remind him when to stop. Because Christopher knew how much he could take that wouldn’t be harmful to Tom. But still Tom struggled a bit, because he knew how much Christopher liked that, and frankly, so did Tom. The feel of that iron grip on his wrists, the hard thighs powering his legs apart, the small snarl Christopher gave when Tom panted and arched up, a quiet warning, his instinct to keep his prey still but wanting him to fight him a bit. It was a thin line to toe, but Tom was content to try it.

It always ended with Christopher embedded deep inside, both cock and fang piercing him as they fell into the swirling abyss of their climaxes. 

The weather turned colder as the days shortened. Christopher was awakening later in the mornings and falling asleep earlier in the evenings. Tom, bundled up in scarves and coats, would find dinner made for him by the time he arrived home; or else, Chris would meet him at work and they would drive to a restaurant where Tom would eat and Christopher would pretend to sip on wine.

Tom wondered briefly to himself if Christopher had seen any sign of that vampire. Across from him, Christopher shook his head and stared out the window.

“No. Nothing.”

It was a bitterly cold November night when Christopher rolled Tom over in bed and climbed on top of him. Blinking awake, Tom mumbled softly and lifted his hands to circle Christopher’s biceps. It was a work night, which is why he was sleeping when he otherwise would have stayed up to spend time with Christopher.

“What…what time is it?”

Christopher was yanking his pajama bottoms off, Tom’s legs falling heavily back to the bed. He was so sleepy, he didn’t have the energy to play their little cat and mouse game, but he was perfectly okay with Christopher having his way with him if it meant he could lie back and enjoy it with little trouble.

“Just after two,” Christopher whispered. He was inside him soon enough, thick cock spreading him wide. Tom winced and embraced Christopher to his chest, their puffs of breath the only sounds in the room. Licking at his artery, Christopher whispered and moaned, Tom swaying beneath him.

“I love you. So fucking much,” he breathed, and Tom kissed his cheek, clasping the back of his neck for balance.

“I love you, my angel,” he said softly. But when Christopher hauled him upright, he cried out in alarm. “No, darling, wait—.”

“On your knees, baby.” He propped him on the edge of the bed and thrust into him again from behind. Tom grunted, arms stretched out to brace himself, but he couldn’t reach the bed. Christopher had an arm wrapped around his neck, the other around his waist, and he held Tom steady as he fucked into him. Cheeks pressed tight, Christopher mouthed at his jaw, nibbled on his earlobe, trailed his lips down to the side of Tom’s neck. Fatigued and half asleep, Tom moaned, feeling the vibrations of it seep into Christopher’s chest.

“Stay with me,” Christopher whispered at his ear.

“I can’t,” Tom murmured, eyes slipping closed.

“Stay,” he repeated, and then widened his mouth over Tom’s vein. He bit into him slowly, deeply, and Tom seized with a pained and blissed gasp, jerking violently. Christopher kept him anchored against him, even when Tom bucked again, cock straining and gushing over the sheets. He drank the pulses of blood Tom gave with each frantic beat of his heart, until he also came, releasing inside him. He groaned loudly when Tom went limp, nearly incoherent, head lolling on his shoulder. But he laid him down gently on the pillow and wiped his neck of blood. Tucked into the blanket, Tom felt the soft kiss placed lovingly on his forehead.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” Christopher replied, sliding in beside him. “I’ll go just before dawn. Sleep now. I’m here.”

And Tom did sleep. Face pressed to that silent chest, he fell into another dream of butterflies, this time gathered on the round limbs of an orange tree, pulsing hypnotically. He wished he could touch one, their satin powder wings a plethora of colors and shapes.

It wasn’t their ascent into flight that woke him this time. It was something much quieter, much less obtrusive and alarming. What woke him was the feel of a warm body next to him. That, and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. Eyes snapping open, Tom peered at the wall, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. The person was fully dressed, warm and breathing louder than Christopher would. The crackle of burning tobacco and paper echoed loudly in the dark, and Tom cringed. Against his back, he could feel the pounding of a human heart.

Before his courage fled him, he tossed the sheet away and moved to stand all in one motion. But the hard grip of a hand around his throat yanked him back down. He yelped as he collided against a hard chest. They struggled for a moment, Tom only vaguely aware of his nudity. The cold flash of a steel blade at his throat finally made him go limp, breathing hard, hands splayed wide in the air.

“Easy now,” the man said, speaking around the cigarette propped between his lips. Tom cringed from the warmth emanating from behind him. Warmth meant it wasn’t Christopher.

“Who are you?” he asked, chin tilted up, trying to edge away from the point of the blade. His heart was lodged in his throat, and he tried gasping around his fear. Where was Christopher? Had he gone out to feed? Did that mean it was almost dawn? If it was nearly daybreak, and Christopher was on the verge of his daily sleep, then Tom was in worse danger than he originally thought.

“My name is not important. It’s who I work for that is. Now tell me where the blond one went.”

Tom felt anger rise in his heart. He tugged at the hand clawed around his neck. “You mean me?”

Fingernails bit into his skin and he fell still again. “The bigger blond one. Where is he?”

“How should I know? He just fucks me and leaves. He’s very inconsiderate that way.”

The man chuckled. Keeping the blade at Tom’s neck, he took his cigarette and blew smoke down at Tom’s face. Tom coughed, his eyes watering. “You’re not half bad at lying. And I might have believed you had I not been tailing you for weeks and seen that you two are as about in love as two people can possibly get. It’s pretty disgusting.”

Tom swallowed down the bubble of nausea in his stomach. They had been watched. For how long? And by whom? Who was this man?

“Get off me,” he gasped, skin crawling. “You’re going to get ash all over my sheets.”

The man laughed and then tapped his fingers so that ash from the tip of his cigarette rained down on Tom’s cheek. Tom yelped in pain, bucking, but he couldn’t get loose.

“Not worried about the blood on your sheets though, are ya?”

Tom’s heart rate doubled and he thought frantically of what to do, what to say. “He doesn’t want anything to do with you or any of the other vamps, alright? Just leave him alone. Leave us alone.”

Cigarette back on his lip, the man used both hands again and leaned close. “Unfortunately, I can’t. The boss needs some information on him. Something regarding a particular…gift, shall we say. Something he could have only gotten from his maker. And because of how much your boyfriend’s marked up the place, they’ve sent me. They’re not too keen on stepping near here.”

Tom blinked and filed that information away.

The tip of the blade angled in on one of the punctures from Christopher’s bite wound, and Tom hissed when the scab lifted and started to bleed.

“Now, tell me where he is, or—.”

The window creaked and their heads snapped in its direction, Tom inadvertently making the blade sink deeper.

There was nothing there, only the soft swish of the curtain.

“He’s a fast one,” the man whispered in Tom’s ear. “For one so young.” There was an excitement in his voice that made Tom distinctly uncomfortable, as if the man were unwisely getting some kind of kick from Christopher’s abilities as a vampire. In a louder voice, he said, “Where are you, giant?”

Tom tried shifting away, heels digging into the mattress, but the knife cut deeper into his neck. He gasped, abhorring the feel of the man at his back, a streak of blood rolling down to his shoulder. A growl rose low in the room, and Tom darted his eyes left and right. It was still too dark to see anything solid, but Christopher was there. The man knew the same.

He tightened his told on Tom. “Come with me quietly and I won’t stab him in the throat.”

A noise to the left made the man jump, dragging Tom around to face that way. And then the same noise again, but on the other side of the room. The man shook Tom roughly, yanking him closer. More ash rained down on him and Tom gasped, trying to shake it off.

Another growl, louder this time.

“Quit your shit!” he yelled, squeezing his hand tighter around Tom’s throat. “One quick jab and he’s a goner.”

 _Darling_ , Tom thought, hoping Christopher was listening. _They want to know about your mind reading. He works for someone who wants information on you._

The room was silent and then Christopher spoke. His voice, deep with anger, came from the direction of the bathroom door.

“Let him go. And I’ll go with you.”

“That easy, huh?” Tom could practically hear the man smile. Another flake of ash landed on Tom, this time singeing the corner of his eye. He whimpered as more blood slid down his neck.

What happened next passed in a spinning blur. One moment Tom was being held down by the man with the knife, and the next something barreled into his attacker, ripping him away so that Tom landed back on the soft pillows.

He grabbed his neck and felt sticky wet blood stain his fingers. To the side of the room, he heard grunts and growls, and he reached to turn on the lamp. Light flooded the room, making him squint.

Christopher stood with the man in a headlock and his eyes, when he glanced at Tom, were black.

“Who is your master?” he whispered, and the man’s face bubbled with anger, clawing at the arm strangling him. Christopher shook him, not unlike the way the man had shaken Tom just moments before, only more violent. The cigarette lay tossed to the floor, smoke curling into the air. “Who is he?” Christopher repeated, words growled.

He still found a way to laugh. “You won’t find him. But he’ll find you.”

Sheet pressed to his bleeding neck, Tom watched, mouth agape. Christopher’s nostrils flared and he cast black eyes on Tom, fangs extended. And then his eyes narrowed and he pulled the man up so they were face to face, sneakered toes skimming the carpet.

“So they thought to trap me, did they?” he said, voice low. “Thought I would drain your poisoned blood?”

Tom sat up, trying to follow the conversation. Clearly, Christopher had read something from the man’s thoughts. The man, struggling against the iron grip, suddenly went still.

“So it’s true,” he whispered, awed. And then he started cackling, teeth gleaming in all his maniacal frenzy. Whether delusion-induced or a product of whatever poisoned drug laced his blood, the man grew red in the face, his laughter beginning to choke him. Christopher’s eyes darted over him, brows low in disgust. And in one swift move, he flicked his wrists and broke the man’s neck. The laughter cut off sharply, a disturbing silence left in its wake. He tossed the body to the floor where it landed with a heavy thud.

Stunned, Tom stared, blinking to make sure he was awake. Christopher was immediately at his side.

“Let me see. Careful.”

He pulled the sheet down and peered at Tom’s wound. It immediately started to bleed again, blood spilling down to his chest. Tom whined and shied away, feeling faint. Christopher hushed him quietly and tugged forward, lapping at the flowing blood with his tongue, over his nipple and along his clavicle, up and up, finally closing his mouth over the gash on his neck. He flattened his tongue against the skin until the blood slowed and eventually staunched. He drew back and kissed it gently.

“So many sparks,” he murmured, eyes heavy, fingers slipping into Tom’s hair. With his thumb he brushed away the cooled ashes from Toms’ cheekbone. It was almost dawn and exhaustion was beginning to creep into Christopher’s eyes.

“What do we do now?” Tom asked.

Christopher wavered. “There’s two minutes until dawn. You’re safe until tonight. As soon as I wake, we need to leave.” Tom blinked, his neck stinging. “Leave? As in…forever? Leave everything?” Christopher hesitated, lashes looking white against the black of his eyes. He collapsed softly against the mattress, his strength fleeing him as daybreak drew nearer. “Or I can leave. It’s me they want. Without me here, you’ll be safe.”

Tom crowded over him, grasping at his shoulders. Panic lit in his heart. “No,” he gasped. “No, I won’t leave you. And you can’t leave me. There has to be another way.” 

Christopher’s lashes fluttered, and he shook his head weakly. “I don’t know another way. Just…please be ready. For tonight. Have some bags packed. We’ll leave for a little bit. Call in to work. I don’t want to leave you, either.”

Tears in his eyes, Tom cupped his face. The fangs receded, and Christopher eased into his sleep with a troubled frown. The room lightened too quickly, and Tom turned with a gasp. Askew and half open, the drapes let in the burning morning sun. He jumped up and shut them fast, turning to make sure Christopher was unharmed. And then he remembered the dead body lying on the floor.

Hands on his hips, he glanced around, half distraught, half annoyed. “Well, shit.”

**

In what had to be his most award-winning performance, Tom called in to work feigning stomach problems, telling them he might not be in for the rest of the week. He had plenty of sick time saved up, so it didn’t worry him too much being absent from his job. But with his neck aching and heart still numb from the night’s events, it wasn’t so hard to fake sounding upset.

After throwing on a loose jumper and a pair of dirty jeans, streaked blood flaking on his skin, he stood in his room and thought about what to do about the dead body on his floor. Christopher was sprawled on the bed, face pressed to the bloodstain on the sheet. Tom would need to remember to throw those out. But would he even need to? It seemed like they were about to uproot completely, leave in a whirl of late evening haze and hastily packed bags. How long would they be gone? It didn’t seem like whoever this vampire boss character was would give up so easily, sacrificing a human lackey in what had obviously been some kind of suicide mission, hoping Christopher would fall so easily for enemy blood.

He sighed and rolled up his sleeves, figuring he would worry about that once Christopher woke at nightfall. Thanking his lucky stars that the weather was cold instead of the broiling heat of summer, Tom thought it was early enough in the morning that he could drag the body out to his back yard so that they might bury it before the earth hardened too much. He just wanted the body out of his house. Now.

Pulling on the man’s legs, he dragged him out into the hall and through the kitchen, needing to stop and drag in deep breaths of air by the pantry door. He was still so dizzy from the loss of blood, still weak from it. Head pounding, limbs feeling like lead, Tom steeled himself and continued until the body was stretched along the side of the house. Moving fast, he piled the plastic sheeting he’d thought to save for gardening in the spring, and then stacked a shovel and rake over the top, trying to make it look like a natural bundle of outdoor stuff. He groaned as a wave of vertigo hit him, and he toppled to the ground, trembling fingers over his eyes to stop the spinning.

Finally standing under the spray of hot water ten minutes later, Tom let himself relax against the tiled wall and weep. He realized quite suddenly that his love for Christopher would mean he would follow him anywhere. It’s not like Tom had any developed connections in London. His coworkers were lovely people, and he would miss them terribly, not to mention the sweet girls who ran the bakery he usually stopped in every once in a while. But he wasn’t very close to his neighbors, apart from the occasional good morning from his drive when retrieving the newspaper. Would he really be missed? Would the only person who would miss him the most be the person with whom he was running away? He wiped at his tears, sniffing.

Swaying on his feet, he shut the water off and towel dried his shaking limbs. Before anything else, before eating or packing some bags, he needed to sleep. Collapsing down beside Christopher, Tom threw an arm and leg over him and, with his face pressed to the soft meat of his shoulder, promptly passed out.

**

As much as he hated to admit it, Tom realized that most of his most precious belongings fit into only a few suitcases. Apart from his books, which he stacked into the boot of his car, he put his favorite pieces of clothing into traveling luggage, and blankets and pillows into the backseat. It may have been overkill, but he had a feeling they weren’t coming back here. At least not for a long while. The sun was nearing the horizon by the time he sat down in the living room with a tired huff. Bookshelves and closet empty, he stared around at the remaining furniture; the sofas and coffee table, the side cabinet with its small collection of curios. A candle. A porcelain blue dish with assorted change and stray buttons and cuff links. When would he see them again?

He sighed and tried not to get ahead of himself. This was only precautionary. And besides his bed and the physical walls of his home, everything that mattered to him would be going with them.

There was a shift in the air and then Christopher was kneeling before him, eyes still black, fangs peeking behind his upper lip. He cupped Tom's face.

"Don't even think about it," Tom whispered. "I haven't any more to give."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I'll go feed now. I'll be only a moment."

"Don't go far. We have a body to bury."

And then he was gone, the front door opening and closing seemingly on its own. Tom rubbed a hand over his face, still worn out and empty. When Christopher returned, he dug a hole deeper than six feet in the corner of the backyard. He was digging so fast, the shovel blurred an arc over his head. Tom watched dully, thinking to himself that maybe he was in shock and it was probably best if Christopher drove to wherever they planned on going. And maybe it wasn't the best idea to bury the body on his property, but he was about ready to keel over from fatigue and he didn’t really care.

Just as Christopher was patting the earth flat again, plastic sheeting tossed to the side, he suddenly stiffened and dropped the shovel. Tom frowned, about to ask him what the matter was when he was being pushed up against the brick wall, Christopher's broad shoulders cornering him in.

"What is it?" Tom whispered, peeking from behind his head.

"Yes, what is it," came a voice from above them, lilting teasingly with a smile. They both looked up and saw a figure squatting on the edge of his roof.

Christopher adjusted his stance to block Tom from view, but still the stranger smiled, most of him obscured in shadows.

"Christopher," the stranger said. "I've wanted to meet you for some time. Why have you been avoiding me?"

Christopher said nothing, only started inching Tom backwards, both taking small steps toward the back door.

"You needn't worry. I'm here alone." The man stood and then jumped from the roof, opposite them on the spongy ground. Christopher flinched, arms angled back to keep Tom bracketed in. His eyes bounced over every possible exit, but they started to narrow with the realization that they had limited means of escape. The person had to be another vampire. But was it the one that had watched them by the Thames? Was he the one who’d sent the man that now lay dead at the bottom of the hole Christopher had just filled?

“Your human wants to know who I am,” the man said, smiling small in the soft, dark light of evening. Tom started, his mind reeling at the coincidence. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence. Maybe the certainty with which the man uttered the words, and the way Christopher tensed meant it was probably the farthest thing from a coincidence. Tom thought of closing off his mind, wanting the man out of his head. But that would mean severing his connection to Christopher, too, and Tom was pretty sure they were going to need that connection in the coming minutes.

The man was tall, taller even than Christopher, and reed-thin. He wore all black, a simple jacket over a shirt and dark trousers. His hands, pale against his clothing, were big.

"My name is Nero. And before you ask,” he said, holding a finger up. “No, not like that Nero.” He chuckled, the sound fading low in the cool air.

Tom thought it wasn’t a bad idea to clarify, considering that a vampire’s age wasn’t always a known factor, and he very well could have been that heinous emperor for all they knew. But he kept quiet about that. The vamp, however, continued to stare at him with an amused, knowing look and Tom fought harder to conceal his thoughts.

“I don’t care who you fucking are,” Christopher said. “I want nothing to do with you or your piece of shit cabal.”

“We don’t want you,” Nero said, voice hardening. “So what you want is of no consequence.”

And in the grip he had on Christopher’s shirt, Tom felt his inhale of breath, a steeling of sorts, because rejection was always what Christopher feared and tried to prepare himself for the most. And here it was, so blatant and coarse.

“Judging by the smell of that body in the corner,” Nero continued, perhaps unaware of Christopher’s hurt, or perhaps aware and not caring. “You didn’t fall for my trap.”

“Wasn’t much of a trap. He reeked of poison.”

“But you didn’t smell it on him, did you?”

Christopher didn’t say anything.

“I know because I can see into your mind as easily as you did into his.”

Silence.

Tom’s exhaustion was burning away with the flood of adrenaline in his system. At the back of his neck, he felt a drop of sweat slide down. 

Nero shrugged and started walking a slow circle around them. Christopher moved as he moved, keeping between him and Tom. “It’s rare, telepathy. But your maker passed it to you. Thing is, I’m not entirely keen on another vamp having the same weapon as me. I was after Jones for a while before he made you. And you’re turning out to be more of a threat than he was.”

“That’s why you got rid of him,” Christopher said, and Nero smiled. Only this time, Tom saw the distinct glint of fang.

“Yes. Precisely.” Nero studied them, curiosity bending his full brow. “You haven’t properly fed from him this night, Christopher. But I still see them on your tongue. The sparks. Like blinking wisps of fireflies.”

Christopher stiffened and stood to his full height, Tom peeking over his shoulder. Nero laughed, full-bellied and low. “You’ve always wondered about the sparks, haven’t you. Wondered what they meant. But seeing the two of you now, I can’t know how you never figured it out. That's love, then, is it? What you two have," he said, eyeing them both. He spoke as if teaching them some kind of school lesson. Tom didn’t appreciate the condescension. "That's all love is. A chemical. A chemical in your brain that makes you feel all gooey inside, like mush, full of paper cut hearts and pink confetti. Those sparks you feel are just your brain releasing endorphins from the emotions you have for your guy. Nothing else. The chemicals react differently in our changed biologies. Stronger than in humans. They feel their hearts beat faster when they think of their beloved, we feel light in our veins. It's all the same thing, processed differently. Different creature, different reaction."

“I don’t need you to tell me what I feel,” Christopher said, voice dropping. “I’ll break your neck the way I broke his.” He gestured to the corner of the yard, where the earth was darker and freshly turned.

“Except you won’t,” Nero said. His right hand lifted slowly. “I wonder…have all of your gifts developed yet…or only one?”

“Gifts?” Tom heard himself say, and then bit his lip, quieting.

“Like this one,” Nero said, and then clenched his fingers in an open, horizontal claw.

Tom’s eyes bulged. A hard pressure clenched around his throat and his hands flew to his neck, trying to dislodge the invisible grip. Christopher whipped around.

“Tom!”

But Tom couldn’t breathe. He was choking, face on fire. Christopher’s eyes widened and he took Tom’s head, trying to help him, discovering he couldn’t. He turned back to Nero.

“Stop! Leave him alone!”

Nero’s wrist flicked. Tom jerked to the side and went flying through the air, crashing through the glass door and landing over the kitchen table, one chair cracking under his weight. He skidded along the floor and crumpled against the wall, lying still. Faintly, he heard Christopher’s roar, but he must have blacked out because when he came to again, blood was oozing from cuts on his face and neck, over his knuckles and palms, and he inhaled heavily, the strangling hold on his throat finally gone. He groaned, drips of red trickled into one eye, but he couldn’t even blink away the painful sting, lashes fluttering in his daze. Glass littered the floor around him, bits falling out of his hair and landing like diamonds on his nose and cheek.

Every part of him felt bruised raw, and he was too afraid to move. Hands shaking, he was vaguely aware of the sounds coming from outside. The growls and the soft thuds, reminding him of how boxers practice their punches by hitting frozen slabs of meat. The snarling and growling moved away from the broken door, leaving him alone with his stuttered breaths, his pain an ache in his bones.

“Chris…” He winced and shuddered. The left side of his body had taken the brunt of the impact with the glass door, and now his arm throbbed with every pulse.

He heard his name from outside, but then another crash against the wall of the house, making it tremble, plaster falling from the ceiling.

“I’m…fine,” he wheezed, knowing Christopher would hear him. Very slowly, he rolled onto his back, bracing his weight on his right palm, his left arm useless to him. Landing with a huff, he stifled a scream at the burning pinch of fire in his side, so strong it nearly made him black out again. He gritted is teeth and looked down.

“Oh, god,” he whispered, voice broken. “Oh, Jesus…fuck.” A jagged chunk of glass poked out from the meat of his waist, tainted red with his blood. He let his head fell back, a rush of vertigo stunning his senses, mind spinning.

Blinking to clear it, one eye still blind from blood, he turned his head, eyes landing on a splintered leg from the chair that had broken under him. Panting, he stretched his right arm out, fingers just barely glancing over the edge, sending it on a slow spin. Tears in his eyes, he tried again, this time snatching it tight.

Outside, the scuffle continued and Tom whined helplessly, feeling powerless while Christopher fought for his life outside. Steeling himself, he rolled to his stomach, clenched jaw catching his sob of pain.

“Tom!” he heard, and then more thuds against the frame of the house.

“’m fine,” he mumbled, teeth chattering. Finally sliding a knee under him, he managed to climb to his feet, limping a few steps to test his legs. Steady enough and with makeshift stake in hand, he stumbled through the shattered back door.

Christopher and Nero were nowhere to be seen. Tom rubbed at his eye, smearing blood over more of his face, frantic in his search. And then he spotted four pairs of boots around the corner of the house, arranged so intimately Tom might have thought the two were doing something much more loving than killing each other. Hobbling across the yard, he stopped just feet from where they lay struggling, Nero on top of Christopher, who was trying to hold the other one off. Neither of them, with all their heightened senses, seemed to have noticed him yet.

Tom stood stunned, broken arm and roughly embedded glass nearly forgotten. Nero had Christopher’s head clenched between his two great hands, and his head was bent over his throat. In no small amount of horror, Tom realized Nero was _feeding_ from him. And Christopher fought, but he was visibly weakening, face scrunched in pain. Tom’s heart clenched when Christopher choked wetly as Nero tore away abruptly, blood arcing across the wall of the house.

“Jones was mine, you see,” Nero whispered, red teeth tight. He had his hands wrapped around Christopher’s neck, slick with blood. “I made him. He received what I gave him. My gifts. And he was strictly forbidden from making another. And yet, here you are. A visible and monstrous reminder of his defiance.” He pushed down with his hands and Christopher’s groan was cut off, his eyes rolling back in his head. He tugged at Nero’s wrists, but even Tom could see that Nero was the stronger one, older and more experienced. Christopher wouldn’t last much longer against him. Both bore wounds from their fight, bruises and deep gouges in their skin. Eyes blackened, they appeared every bit like wildcats, gnashing and clawing to kill.

Remembering the sweet scent of oranges and clove from his shared pillow with Christopher, Tom lifted his arm and slammed the stake down over the top knot of Nero’s spine, just beneath the nape of his neck. It didn’t go in very far, and Tom was greatly sapped of strength, but it was enough to dislodge his hands from Christopher’s neck, who reacted fast. Kicking his legs, Christopher flipped them so that Nero was on his back, the stake dislodging and clattering to the side. Tom collapsed against the wall, vision winking in and out, blackening around the edges.

“You’re a fucking dumb prick for coming here alone,” Christopher growled, voice shot. He slammed a closed fist into the center of Nero’s solar plexus, and then again twice more, Nero doubling in pain. “Because you’re sure as hell not leaving here alive. I never wanted your approval or a membership to your goddamned cult. I never asked Jones to make me, or to abandon me, or to let me wander all these fucking nights alone and without a clue what to do with myself. You and your cunt followers can all go fuck yourselves.”

He spit in his face and then started hitting his closed fist against Nero’s chest, over and over and over. Tom watched, air dragging shallowly into his lungs.

“Darling,” he murmured, but Christopher didn’t turn. He hit the other vampire again and again, until a loud splintering of bone broke over the grunts and the growls.

Nero screamed and gnashed his teeth.

“Darling, what are you—?”

Clawing his fingers into the cracked orifice, Nero’s legs kicking hard, Christopher pried the ribs open with a groan and tore out Nero’s heart, still and shriveled and thin, like a disease-riddled organ.

Nero’s eyes went glassy the moment his heart was ripped from him, limbs falling limply on the ground, breath escaping in a rush. Christopher crushed the heart in his fist, where it ruptured and leaked a dark oozing liquid down his forearm. He rent it in two before tossing the remainder of it in the dirt.

Tom gaped, eyes flicking from Christopher to the wrinkled heart, the wet and red flaps of muscle lying shredded, like old bits of deflated balloons. Trying to quell the rise of nausea, Tom failed and bent over the dried rosebushes and vomited. Pain racked up his spine, and he felt himself falling. Christopher was suddenly there, catching him, lowering him to the ground gently. Behind him, a quarter moon shone weakly over their heads and Tom blinked, wanting to memorize the stars forever.

“Baby, can you hear me? Shit. Shit! Tom? Please say something.” Fussing over him, Christopher took stock of Tom’s wounds, eyes glancing at the broken door and the glass stuck in his side. He cursed again.

“Go…feed,” Tom whispered. He knew Christopher must be ravenous with his sudden loss of blood. And to heal he would need more than usual. His eyes were so black, it almost seemed as if it had seeped even into the whites of his eyes, far beyond the usual circle of his irises. But his neck was so gutted, it was no wonder. Blood pulsed sluggishly down his shirt, and Tom didn’t know how Christopher was still walking about.

“No,” Christopher said, shaking his head. He was fingering around the shard of glass, brow bent in concentration.

“Yes,” Tom insisted, squirming on the ground. “You have to feed. You’re bleeding out. Go and then come back to me. I’ll be just fi—.”  
“NO!” Christopher yelled, and Tom flinched.

Bowing his blond head, Christopher whimpered and shut his eyes tight, trying to rein in his emotions. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to yell. But seeing you fly through that door, something snapped inside me and I’m still trying to get…” He shuddered. “…out of it.”

Tom lifted his good arm and cupped his cheek. Christopher leaned into it.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked softly.

“Make it stop,” Tom answered, face so pale, lips trembling. “Make the pain stop.”

“I only know one way, babe. And I’ve never done it before.” Christopher’s face fell in all his grief, chin trembling.

Tom bit back another wave of nausea, and he clutched at Christopher. “Darling, make me like you. Just like you. Do it. I want it. I’ll be better for it.”

Christopher shook his head, eyes shining in the dark. “No. Tom, no. I…I don’t—I think I should take you to the hospital.”

“No hospital,” Tom gasped, wincing. “Too many questions. And—.”

“Of course I’m taking you to the fucking hospital, Tom. You have a piece of glass in your gut.”

Tom wept, unable to argue. And then he felt the earth dip and he moaned in fear, feeling as if the sky were falling out from under him. He vaguely heard Christopher telling him to hold on, and then they were moving, and it was too much, too fast, the world a blur of light and sound. He clung to Christopher’s shoulders, trying to get his heaving stomach to settle. And then there was a bustle of people around them and he was being lowered onto something soft and lights flashed overhead and faces bent close, so many voices but no sense, no sense whatsoever.

“Chris…”

No one heard him.

“Christopher…”

“Listen, I don’t know what happened. I just found him that way.”

“And how are you related?”

“I’m his…” he heard Christopher say, and he could already imagine his eyes wild with panic. “I’m his…I’m _his_ , alright!”

“Sir, if you’re not next of kin then you are not allowed back here with him. You look like you need some help yourself. Why don’t you wait here and—.”

“Chris…I love you.”

“Please,” Christopher insisted, voice heavy. “I need to be with him...” 

It all faded away when Tom felt a prick in the crook of his arm. He startled suddenly, remembering the bite marks on his neck, but then the world greyed out and he fell into unconsciousness.

**

A somber beeping woke him, and he blinked his eyes open, the blurry world shifting into focus. His eye didn’t sting anymore, so he thought the blood had probably been flushed out. The machine by his bedside glowed with green and orange lights, keeping his vitals in check. A blanket covered his legs. Bandages pulled tight on the skin of his face and neck, and his left arm was cast in hard plaster up to his elbow, curled against his chest in a soft cotton sling. His side pulled tightly with every breath, and he imagined he might have stitches where the glass shard had been.

He licked his lips and rolled his head, the pain numbed beautifully by whatever drug was being fed into his vein. The room was small, but private. A window by the door showed a hallway and the corner of a nurses’ station, around which he saw a few people busy at work, bent over clipboards or peering into computer screens.

“Chris,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes, a sudden longing seeping in between his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t subside.

And then the door clicked closed and Christopher stood there, a bundle of clothing in his arms, blue eyes wide on Tom. His neck was smooth and whole again, not a speck of blood on him. Gone were the bruises and the scratches from his fight with Nero. It seemed he had finally fed enough to heal properly.

“Baby,” he said, hurrying to Tom’s side.

Tears slipped down Tom’s cheeks and he reached for him with his right arm. Christopher bent and hugged him as gently as he could, but still Tom grimaced.

“Your heart,” Christopher gasped, pulling away. “Did I hurt you?”

Tom shook his head and relaxed against the pillow. He smiled. “You snuck in.”

“The only way I could see you. These people wouldn’t let me.”

“What do you have there?” Tom said, pointing to the bundle in his lap.

“I brought you clothes. From what you had packed in the car. Which is safe, by the way. I parked it here at the hospital.”

Tom frowned. “Have you been back to the house?”

Christopher nodded.

“When they wouldn’t let me in with you, I went to feed. And then I cleaned up the mess in the backyard before the other vamps could think to show up. And uh…” He cleared his throat, hands clasped before him. “I kinda…burned down your house.”

Tom blanched. “You what?”

Christopher swallowed, looking down. “I burned it.”

“But why!”

“Look, all of your stuff was already packed in the car. You didn’t lose anything important. And you have insurance. The payout will be more than enough to build somewhere else.”

Tom’s mind was jumping. “But-but where else, Chris? There is nowhere else!”

“There is,” Christopher said softly.

“What are you talking about?”

Christopher leaned close and took his hand. “The farm. You dream a lot about a farmhouse. A house on a plot of land by a mountain. And I know it’s yours because you think about your dad a lot. And he left it to you. But the house isn’t there anymore, is it?”

Numbly, Tom shook his head.

“Where is that land you own?”

“Scotland,” he said, monotone.

Christopher ducked his head. “Oh.”

Tom stared at the starched white blanket covering him. All of the memories, everything he’d lived in that house. The bathtub. And their times on his bed and couch. Christopher cooking for him, laughing quietly in the kitchen, kissing by the back door. And the drapes…Oh, god, the drapes.

“Actually,” Christopher said quietly. “I saved the drapes. I folded them up and put them in the car before I set it ablaze.”

Tom gaped at him.

Christopher shrugged. “They mean a lot to me too.”

And then the tears came, Tom’s face crumpling in all his grief, his relief, his happiness at being alive and having Christopher alive with him, in a manner of speaking. They almost lost their lives that night. What was a house in measure of all that was left to them on this earth?

Christopher slid onto the bed next to him and Tom turned into his chest, tears leaking over the bandages on his face, soaking them and making them damp. Christopher cupped his head, caressing his hair.

“Did you really mean it?” he asked, and Tom looked up at him.

“Mean what?”

“That you wanted to be like me.”  
Tom remembered what he’d said the night before. What he’d asked Christopher to do to him. It was something he’d been thinking about since finding out what Christopher really was. The preternatural abilities, the strength and the healing, the eternal night that would be their life, the great and lovely company he would be able to keep with Christopher at his side. And yes, he thought. I do. I do want to be like you. If it means I get to keep you forever.

Christopher smiled and kissed his forehead.

“I am yours forever. I promise you.”

“Thank you,” Tom whispered, fingers curling into Christopher’s jumper.

“But not here,” he told Tom. “Those other vamps will be looking for us at your house. That’s why I wanted it burned. No traces for anybody. Human or vamp.”

Tom nodded, and snuggled against him. “I think I know just the place. But you’re driving.”

**

A trip from London to Glasgow would take nearly eight hours by car.

Christopher shrugged. “I could make it in three, maybe. If I carried you.”

Tom shut that idea down right away. “First of all. I’ll probably vomit the entire time. And we need to take my car. It has all my things.”

He spent two days at the hospital, long enough to receive another blood transfusion and for the doctor to make sure his side wound would heal okay. His worries about the bite wounds on his neck were unfounded, as the lacerations from the glass door concealed the bites entirely. Still Tom was careful with how he exposed his neck and throat when a doctor or nurse was in the room. During his stay, he was visited by both police and insurance representatives, both of whom wanted information on who attacked him to begin with.

“No one saw you, right?” Tom confirmed with Christopher before he spoke with anyone.

Christopher looked affronted. “Of course no one saw me.”

Neither the police nor his insurance agency believed the attack and the arson were unrelated. Tom tried to play up being as broken hearted as possible, recounting the surprise attack and damaging struggle in his darkened house. Apart from the two emergency room nurses, no one knew Christopher had been with Tom that night, and so Tom told Christopher to make himself scarce at the hospital, which seemed to work just fine as he only appeared in Tom’s room late at night. So far, he hadn’t come up in his discussion with the authorities.

Tom would be receiving a check in the mail in six to eight weeks’ time. They planned on being far from London by then. The forwarding system would make sure the check found its way to him.

The night of the third day, Tom checked himself out of the hospital. He limped to the lift and made his way down to the lobby. As soon as he stepped out into the cool night air, Christopher was at his side, an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the car.

He helped Tom lower himself into the passenger seat, reclining it back and arranging a blanket over his legs and a pillow under his head. Tom fell asleep almost immediately, his last glimpse of Christopher behind the wheel, one long arm draped over Tom’s lap, their fingers twined.

He woke only once, when Christopher pulled into a petrol station to fill up the tank. Blearily, Tom fumbled for his pain medication, and downed two pills with a bottle of water.

“You’re hungry,” Christopher said, leaning in through the passenger window.

“A bit, yes,” Tom said, squinting up at him. “Are we almost there?”

“A few more hours yet. We should be getting there before sunrise.”

“God willing,” Tom mumbled, head tucked into his pillow again. He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep again until he woke sometime later to flashes of light streaming over his face and the smell of warm bread and meat. He sat up gingerly and Christopher reached to palm his cheek, thumb rasping over his day-old stubble. He smiled at him.

Tom devoured the meat sandwich in the paper bag between the seats, emptying the carton of juice beside it.

“How much farther?” he croaked, sinking back down on the seat.

Christopher patted his good arm. “Not much farther.”

'Tom hoped not. Already the sky was lightening on the horizon.

They reached Glasgow and Tom roused to give directions. The land where the farmhouse of his childhood use to sit on was close to a rustic village, complete with teal-colored window shutters and cobbled streets. Arms around each other for support, they limped through the front door and were met with the concerned coos of a tiny round woman. She got them settled into a room on the second floor, one with two tall narrow windows that had outer shelves for actual living flowers. She told them breakfast was served at six am, just two hours away.

Tom was still a little loopy from his pain medication, and he leaned heavily against Christopher. "Thank you, but we'll probably make it to lunch instead," he said.

The woman smiled and nodded that that would be fine. As soon as Tom was comfortable on the bed, Christopher disappeared and returned a minute later with extra blankets to hang over the windows. Once dark as the womb, he crawled into bed with Tom and pulled him close, careful with his cast and the wound on his side. They fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, Christopher because of the rising sun and Tom from sheer exhaustion.

It wasn't until after two in the afternoon that Tom finally stirred, his arm throbbing again. Christopher was lying half on him, not breathing. Tom stroked his cheek softly, planting a kiss on his brow before standing and finding his way to the small bathroom.

He took his lunch in a corner of the inn’s small dining hall, a meal rich in starches and protein. He ate it all with relish, swallowing back a glass of ice water. Sunlight flooded in through the latticed window next to his table, and he sat with his eyes closed, basking in the warmth.

Soak it in, Thomas, he told himself. Your days in the sun are limited.

It wasn’t working, this arrangement he had with Christopher. The night and day schedules were beginning to grate on him, on his health and his ability to function. There was no way to cure Christopher of this affliction, and Tom had decided quite some time ago that vampirism would be fine with him, if it meant he got to avoid easy injury, heal instantaneously, and spend all of his time, his life, with Christopher. He could go where he wanted and never age. And unlike Christopher’s misfortune of waking to this new life with a worthless guide, Tom would have a maker who loved him, both already so savvy in their own way of how to keep a vampire safe and from death.

He smiled in the midday sunlight, thumbnail tracing over the swirled wooden tabletop.

“I can do it,” he said softly, dust motes catching lazily in the column of light. “But maybe not quite yet.”

After chatting quietly with the woman who ran the inn, Tom climbed the stairs, slowly and with a white-knuckle grip on the bannister. He needed to make arrangements before he let Christopher turn him. His work, his insurance, and the architect that was recommended to him by someone at the hospital. With a pained sigh, he sat at the rickety desk by the window and pulled out his mobile.

**

In the dim light of afternoon, he tapped a pencil against his chin and thought about the farmhouse his family used to own. It had been two storeys, with wide front windows that overlooked the valley to the east and the rear-facing back windows that showed the staggered-peak western mountain that Tom sometimes still dreamt about. There had been two rooms on the top floor and two on the ground floor, wide and high-ceilinged, both separated by the staircase and hallway. The kitchen had what he now knew were antiquated appliances, a giant wrought iron stove his mother used to bake bread in, a deep sink colored robin's egg blue, and broad cabinets stacked with dozens of plates and glasses and jars she used to fill with fruit preserves in the summer.

He didn't want the new house to be an exact replica of his parents' old home. From what he could remember, he'd had a happy childhood there, filled with sprints through high grasses and tumbling over the sharp rocks at the base of the mountain before his father had called him back home again. But it would be nice to have some features of the old house, and a little something new for just he and Christopher. Tongue between his teeth, he drew out a rough schematic of his plans, left arm angled awkwardly in its sling to hold the paper still.

When Christopher woke up at sundown, Tom showed him his sketch. Christopher sat beside him and had him explain every nook and cranny, every ceiling and floor, the stairs, both inside and outside on the front porch.

"And here," he said, pointing to a corner of the plan, a darker shaded area. "I was thinking of making a cellar, nice and cool and dark and deep. Wide and spacious." Christopher's eyes rose to meet his. Tom shrugged and rolled the paper into a loose funnel. "I'm just thinking of starting an extensive...wine collection, is all."

Christopher kissed his cheek, fangs sliding out slowly.

Tom laughed quietly, and pushed at his chest. "No, darling. Not yet. You'll just end up passing out from my pain killers."

Christopher nosed at his neck. "But can I...before?"

_Before I turn you into what I am._

It went without saying, but Tom still understood.

"Yes," he said, softly. "You can, my love."

**

His boss more than understood about Tom’s sudden misfortune, losing both house and health so suddenly.

“If you’re thinking of relocating to Scotland, we have a branch in Glasgow,” his boss told him over the phone. “It’s a smaller office, so I’m not sure if they’re taking anyone one at this point, but I can call and make some inquiries for you. You’re an exceptional editor, Tom.”

“Thank you, Frederick. That means a lot. And I would appreciate it so much if you could send around a good word on my behalf.” Frederick readily agreed, and then Tom had a sudden thought. “I’m even available to work from home, if space at the office is of concern to them.”

“That’s a great idea I’ll shoot their way. In any case, I am here to help you find another place to work, Tom. And I’m so very sorry about what’s happened.”

He hung up feeling in better spirits since before Nero showed up on his roof, hunched over like some kind of gargoyle.

Staying on at the inn for a few extra days, Tom was able to fax over his schematics to the architect and arrange a building schedule on the property. He met one of the builders out on the land, a cold and bitter wind cutting sharply around them. Jackets flapping loudly, hair tufting wildly, they walked over the foundation of the old farmhouse, the builder making notes on a clipboard, annotating Tom's schematics to fit the available space.

In order not to alarm the woman downstairs, they kept to their room at night. There was no television, but Tom read from a different book each night, mostly poems or short stories from American and English authors. And they would make love, quietly, feverishly, on the bed with its creaking springs and ancient quilts, dating no doubt back to the First World War.

Once papers had been signed and insurance documents evaluated, work began on the new house. Tom would wander out to the property on his own during the day, face and neck chapped red from the sharp winds. By night, Christopher helped him change the dressing on his side wound, fangs distending of their own accord. And then he would disappear for about an hour to feed, coming back to visit the thin beginnings of their new home. And after speaking in whispers in the solid dark, Christopher leading Tom by the hand so he wouldn't fall, they would stop at the base of the mountain and stare up at the cragged entrance carved deep into its side. They would say nothing, both knowing how the path into its cavernous depths would end.

After two weeks, Tom had most of his business situated. His boss Frederick had put him in contact with the Glasgow branch of the publishing company and he was scheduled to begin with a light load of manuscripts in the non-fiction department. 

It came to a point when one evening, folded around each other on the bed, they realized that there was nothing else to be done but one thing. The house was being built a little more each day and Tom’s work situation was stable again.

"Are you sure?" Christopher asked, lips tickling at his Adam's apple.

"Yes," Tom whispered, carding his fingers through his blond hair. It never grew. He never needed to cut it. If he was wounded, blood healed him. He was exactly the same as the morning they first meant, except for the burning skin and bleeding sores. If Tom were changed that very night, he would forever be as he was at thirty-three years of age. And he was strangely comfortable with that.

Christopher leaned up on his elbow and Tom felt his heart flutter inside his chest.

"Kiss me," he said softly, and Christopher was bending his head even before he'd finished the words. Their lips touched, mouths opening, tongues slipping wetly on each other. 

"How will we..." Tom gasped. He craned his neck, giving Christopher more room. "How will we kiss with my...with my fangs?"

He'd taken to asking Christopher every manner of question about what it would be like to be a vampire—I won't need to use the restroom ever again? What if I get a really weird or disturbing gift, like green glow-in-the-dark skin? We may need to set booby traps in our cellar, darling; I think our electricity bill will go down, don't you? But why the pissing?—all answered with patient smiles and calm responses by Christopher, who was visibly pleased by Tom's curiosity. This time was no different.

"I guess we'll just have to find out, won't we?" He waggled his eyebrows and bent over Tom's neck again, licking at his vein.

"And—and what about something like lube. Will we still need to use it?"

As it was, their bottle was nearly empty, and Christopher was careful with the amount he poured into his palm.

"Just because you'll be super strong and fast and heal quickly, doesn't mean you won't feel pain. You remember me the night when Nero—."

"Yes," Tom cut in, gripping his biceps. "Please don't say it. I will never forget that night."

The corner of his eyes softening, Christopher breathed his name and kissed him again, moving heavy between his legs, slicked fingers pressing to his entrance. Tom bucked and Christopher hushed him, trailing his lips down his collarbones, to his chest, breathing at each nipple, biting them gently between his front teeth, Tom moaning above him. Still he moved lower, kissing his navel, tracing the tip of his nose along the trail of hair to his pelvis, sniffing playfully at the gathering of hairs at the base of his cock, until finally, he hovered over Tom's erection.

Tom rose on his elbows. "Darling—."

Christopher looked up at him, and his eyes were black, like they always were when he was hungry for both Tom's blood and body. It seemed more and more often the black in Christopher's eyes bled into the surrounding white, pupils almost misshapen, but still so lovely Tom's stomach never failed to flip at the sight. And there they were again, locked onto him, the points of fangs glinting behind his upper lip.

Tom swallowed, heart jumping nervously. "I don't know if...if you should—."

And without a blink, Christopher's mouth widened, exposing both rows of teeth. Tom gaped as, with excruciating slowness, the large fangs began to retract, morphing into normal looking canines.

He smiled, shark eyes black and teasing behind blond lashes. "I've been working on that. I can still feel them there, waiting to spring out. But I think I can control them now."

Tom gulped. "Think?"

With only a smile, Christopher bent over his cock and took the head between his lips. Tom hissed and fell back on the bed, hips tilting with every suck of that eager mouth.

"Fuck...Chris, it's—it's so..."

Christopher moaned and sucked harder, inching closer on his knees. Lips sealed tight over him, he hollowed his cheeks and took him down further, head moving side to side to get him deeper. Tom felt like he was being swallowed by the sun, the heat and dots in his vision making him dizzy and desperate.

"Yes, Chris. Just like...just like that."

Blinking up at him, Christopher smiled and fluttered his lashes.

_Tease._

"Come up here, my minx," he growled, smiling. Christopher let him go with a wet pop.

"So good," he groaned, breathless, before ducking down again, sucking hard. Tom groaned and arched his back, fingers tangling in Christopher's hair.

"No, please... _please_. I don't want to come yet. I want you in me when I do."

Christopher pulled off and this time his fangs protruded when he smiled. He nosed along Tom's hip, hair cascading over his face. This was what he liked to do. He liked to taste Tom, from as many places as possible. Stretching him simultaneously, fingers circling and curling, he nicked at his inner thigh. A line of blood appeared and he licked at it quick, pressing his tongue flat to the cut. Tom was shaking, hands fisted, the plaster on his arm catching scratchily at the sheets. Up a little higher and the same flash of fire on his waist, opposite his wound. He bit and drank from him, tiny harmless sips, until Tom was a shivering coil of tension, cock hard on his stomach, legs aching from being held open so long. And then those full lips were on his again, and the tang of copper was blooming on his tongue and Christopher was pushing inside, slow and thick.

They groaned, lips locked, chests flush. Arms wrapped tight around each other, they started rocking, the fill of his body driving him mad with need. In and out, over and again, the drag and pull of their flesh made his senses sing, feeling as if he were soaring above the small inn that was their temporary home, rather than bunched together on that cozy bed.

A soft sob roused him from his delirium and he blinked, lifting his head with worry. "Chris?"

Christopher looked up, black eyes filling with tears. He gripped Tom hard around his ribcage, holding him steady for his heavy thrusts.

"I love you, Tom. I love you. You would be with me forever?"

Seeing Christopher cry triggered his own tears and his vision swam. "Yes, Chris. Yes, my love. I would." He cradled his head against his chest and kissed the crown. "Don't cry, darling. I'm yours."

He was hammering in harder now, curled over Tom's form, his emotion beginning to control his strength.

"Yours is the greatest heart I've ever known. How can I justify stilling it?"

Tom bit his lip and flinched at the glorious abuse he lived under Christopher's big body, the length and weight of him pinning Tom, making him feel every inch and pound of him.

"Because I give it freely. Do not deny me this, Chris. Don't deny me yourself for all our lives."

Ear pressed to Tom's chest, the rumble of every heartbeat loud and pulsing, Christopher vowed.

"I'll never deny you."

Both crying softly, Christopher anchored Tom low and rammed in. When Tom came just moments later, he released into the tight space between their bellies. Christopher's teeth were already sinking into his neck when the first wave hit him, clenching in his release, the scream he gave caught under Christopher's wide hand held over his mouth. The woman who ran the inn slept downstairs, but it was best to be quiet than have to avoid awkward stares over breakfast.

Still he moaned, the vibrations washing over Christopher's palm, his own grunts adding to Tom's, sucking at his neck, the pull of blood prolonging their climaxes, until they lay boneless and drugged.

Fangs retracting again, Christopher licked at the bite wounds, lapping up every drop of blood. Tom gazed lazily at the ceiling, feeling well sated, truly loved.

Glancing at the window, Christopher propped himself up. “I think it’s time, babe.”

Tom blinked. “Let us go then, you and I.” The poem popped into his head from out of nowhere, but he remembered it so fondly all of a sudden, thinking there couldn’t be a more appropriate time to be infused by those words.

They smiled at each other and then Christopher was pulling him to his feet.

They packed all their things and left a note with enough money to cover their extended stay.

 _Thank you so much for your hospitality_ , Tom had written. _Our train arrived early and we had to leave before you woke up. Your inn is absolutely gorgeous and I will recommend you to all of my friends. Please take care. You’re the loveliest. Thanks again!_

Driving down to the property took no time. With Christopher behind the wheel, he avoided every pothole and sleek dip, maneuvering the car with preternaturally aided dexterity. The exposed bones of their house shone brightly in the flash of the car’s headlights, sheets of plastic flapping in the wind, the walls and doorways and windows rising a little more each day. He bypassed the house and drove to the base of the mountain. From there they climbed on foot until they reached a flat expanse of stone, the entrance of the cavern still higher up. Stumbling over broken rocks and sharp inclines in the breathing dark, Tom wheezed his way beside Christopher, who kept a solid arm around his shoulder, guiding him. He had no idea how he climbed up on his own in his dreams, but things were always easier in dreams anyway. Christopher offered to carry Tom, but Tom had refused, thinking of that passage he’d read by Chilean author Isabel Allende: _this is a road I must travel bleeding_. Tom certainly thought such a thing was applicable to his entire existence with Christopher, but it seemed more poignant this night.

The moon was hidden behind the tall peak of the mountain, a gathering of clouds doing nothing to help with the limited light. Tom could hardly see a foot in front of him, but Christopher was such a comforting presence at his side, he needed only to hold onto him to know he wouldn’t fall.

“Here,” he said, out of breath. His broken arm was throbbing and he could feel an incessant pull at the stitches at his waist. “This is good.”

Christopher was silent. He had been since they’d left the inn, and he had a feeling he was just as nervous as Tom was. He’d never before turned anyone. The only thing he could go on was what he remembered from his own turning, and it was something he never mentioned.

Turning in a slow circle, Christopher eyed the ground and then sat down, back against a cold wall of rock. He gestured for Tom to sit on his lap.

This was it, Tom thought, folding his legs and sitting down gingerly on Christopher. It was happening, it was happening, it was happening, it was happening, it was—

“It’s happening,” Christopher whispered, palming the side of his head. He could only see the shine of his eyes, but Tom knew they were black once more. “Is there anything else you want to do bef—.”

“ _No_. Do it,” Tom whispered, holding onto his shoulders, bending his head to the side and exposing his neck. Immediately a cold rush of air slid under his jumper and he shivered. Taking him by the back of his head, Christopher sniffed at his artery, both hunched over the slab of unforgiving rock.

And then he bit down and Tom cried out, his entire body flinching. Christopher tightened his hold and moaned as he began drinking his blood, long and heavy pulls of his mouth making the waxing and waning of Tom’s arousal drastic and alarming, until he was left only with extreme pain. Cheek pressed to Christopher’s hair, head trapped against his shoulder, Tom whispered and struggled a bit, hands clawing at his shirt.

 _Don’t stop_ , he’d told Christopher. _It’s going to hurt. I know it will. You don’t have to tell me. And I’ll probably fight you. But don’t stop. Okay?_

Christopher had promised he wouldn’t, even if it was the quietest vow, the most regretful.

And now Tom resisted, each mouthful of blood weakening him, fire shooting down his neck and into the deeper veins in his chest. His small cries were carried off by the harsh wind, and he felt the cold of the mountain pressing down on them. His lashes fluttered, his grip on Christopher loosening.

 _Don’t…stop_.

Christopher growled and pulled him closer, teeth sinking in just a bit deeper. Tom scrunched his face, going limp in his arms. He was reminded suddenly of that night when Christopher had followed him to his hotel room, the first time he’d felt the sting of his fangs, the lull and pull of his hunger, the dangerous stutter of his heart. It was all happening again, so similar, so exact.

And here he was, heart straining to pump the lessened amount of blood still left in him. His eyes rolled and he caught sight of a line of stars hitching onto a cloud like a tail. Heavy like stones, teeth clenched, Tom moaned and Christopher echoed it, cradling him gently. His heart felt weightless, curled in his arms. The wind could carry him off it wanted to; he wouldn’t even fight it. He wouldn’t.

As Christopher took one last long pull, Tom whimpered and then shuddered violently, crying out in pain.

Christopher pulled away, cupping his cheek, brushing back the curls from his forehead. He reached out of sight and Tom thought he saw a flash of silver.

His pocketknife, he realized, watching with hooded eyes as Christopher dragged the blade down his own neck in an inch-long slice.

“Drink,” he rasped, tongue still wet with Tom’s blood. He brought Tom’s face close. “Drink, baby. Drink it.”

Even opening his mouth took every once of his strength, but he smelled the iron of Christopher’s blood, felt the drip of it on his lips. With his help, Tom latched onto the wound and started swallowing the blood. Several mouthfuls later, he was able to lift his hand and clutch at Christopher’s hair, dragging the blood from deep. Christopher winced, trembling, but he craned his neck to give Tom more room. And he drank, he drank and drank, feeling the blood fill him, disperse into his limbs, warm his bones, swell in his veins.

He grunted, pressing his face harder into that neck, needing more, wanting more.

“Tom—.”

Tom growled softly, sucking harder.

“Stop…Tom, you need to stop.”

But he didn’t. Not until he was forcibly yanked away, blood smeared down his chin, eyes wide in the dark.

And then he felt it, the great convulsion, the wracking of his body, his death.

He bent double and Christopher held him, whispering to him to let it happen, to not fight, it’ll be over soon.

And as he felt his heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s, Tom was lifted in the air, strong arms locked around his body, and then they were moving, up again, higher into the cold and the mist.

“Chris…” he sobbed, the sky spinning.

But Christopher was greatly weakened too, Tom having swallowed nearly all of his blood.

“Almost…there,” he breathed, squeezing in through the cavern’s entrance.

A different kind of dark, a dark that carried whispers on its breath, whispers like spider webs on his face.

“My dream…” Tom murmured, half coherent. His head lolled limply on Christopher’s shoulder. “I died…I think. I have…died.”

Christopher laid him on the floor of the cave, where hot moist air pressed in on all sides. Tom knew he’d been right. He’d known all along the heart of the mountain was made of something like fire, something like what he could only assume had been the warmth of his mother's womb.

Tears poured from his eyes. Inside his chest, his heart was rupturing, a steady and fatal throb.

"I feel...Chris, I feel..." He sobbed softly, shaking his head, unable to say the exact words to tell of the starbursts inside his ribcage.

"I know, baby. I know," Christopher said, leaning over him. "I remember. I remember the stars."

Vision failing him, Tom grasped at his arms. "Please don't leave me. I'm...I'm afraid—."

"I won't leave. I won't. Sleep now, Tom. Sleeping will finish the change. You'll wake tomorrow night, alright? You'll be just like me, baby. And I'll be waiting for you."

Tom, pale as a sheet, smiled weakly, eyes dim and unfocused.

"I will love you...my darling. Forever."

And then his face went slack, and the lines of worry around his mouth and brows smoothed out. While his heart still beat, it was frantic and faint, about to give out any second.

Christopher stared at him for a long moment.

Blood stained Tom’s neck and chest, soaked into the weave of his jumper. Christopher assumed he appeared just as terrible, no doubt looking like a pair of people who'd just been brutally attacked. He wasn't proud of how painful the death had been for Tom; it was his first time turning someone and he only assumed it got better with practice, just like anything else. But he had felt every ounce of the agony Tom endured, the stabs like knives under his skin, body emptied of what gave him life. Still, he’d trusted Christopher, closing his eyes with the belief that he would wake to see his face again.

And he would. Christopher believed that with every fiber of his being. He had to.

He highly doubted he would ever want to turn another person again. The only one he wanted to forever keep was lying unconscious at his feet, and so he would have to wait until the sun set the next night to see if his attempt to convert Tom had worked.

Already worry gnawed at his heart that he had done something wrong, that he had pulled too much blood from him, that he had just permanently killed the man he loved. Such thoughts plagued him, making him cower, making him wonder if he’d just committed the worst mistake of his life.

Very slowly, he arranged Tom’s limbs so that he lay more naturally on the stone slab, adjusting his clothes and cupping his cheeks.

In the still and heavy air of the cavern, there was only silence, the absence of both breaths and heartbeats.

Tom was dead.

Bowing his head, Christopher sobbed, feeling like a wave of cold water on his face the sudden and empty feel of the great world around him, alone now without Tom smiling at him.

He shifted to lie half on Tom, chest to chest, cheek to his neck, wanting to absorb every bit of the warmth still left in him. Such sweet and lovely warmth.

“I will keep you warm,” he wept. “When you wake. I will keep you warm.” He petted Tom’s hair, tracing the curve of his jaw with his thumb, brushing the tip of his fingers across the fan of eyelashes. But then his stomach cramped, and shuddered. He needed to feed. He needed to be strong for Tom, and he needed to make sure Tom's own needs were met upon waking.

Pushing to all fours, Christopher groaned when he swayed, and he caught himself on the rough ground, stones cutting into his palms. Staggering to his feet, he checked the surrounding cave for stray animals, and once assured there were none, he fell out through the jagged opening and raced out into the night.

**

Monarchs. Millions of them. Bold flashes of black and gold. Clouds of glitter dust bursting in the air. Right in the middle of this field of rolling butterflies, was a tall red tulip. Taller than would normally be expected of a tulip stalk, easily two feet from the ground. Tom approached the flower, the butterflies parting for him as he walked. He bent and sniffed at the bloom, and his senses buzzed with awakening, with desire.

Just as he was about to bite at its petals, the butterflies erupted into thunderous flight.

Tom woke with a gasp, mouth watering.

Lying flat on something cold and hard, darkness spread out around him, yet he could see every thing so clearly, every crack and speck of dirt, every mote of dust, every dangling root from the trees outside the mountain.

He wasn’t alone. He sensed someone just outside. Two someone’s. One whose chest was silent and one whose heart beat wildly.

On the current of air, he sniffed the scent of sweet oranges.

Tom rose, sitting up with hardly a protest. Every bone mended, every cut and wound shut tight, flawless, seamless, perfect with no scars. He pulled up the arm of his jumper and tore off the plaster cast from his arm, needing it no longer. Lifting his shirt, he yanked the soiled bandage from his waist, the staples like tinkling coins falling to the ground.

He made his way to the entrance of the cave, eyes darting in every direction, absorbing the hidden light, the gust of wind, the sky with its millions of stars.

And there, just below him stood Christopher, a twitching body at his feet.

Their eyes met, and they smiled, relief plain on their faces.

The loose stones and sharp incline were not a problem anymore. He picked his way down, eyes glued to Christopher, until he was standing before him and taking his face, pressing their lips together, fangs butting gently.

Tom gasped and pulled away, darting his tongue out to trace his fangs. He hadn’t even felt them come out. Or maybe he’d woken with them already exposed.

“My love,” he whispered, and bent to Christopher’s neck to pierce the vein there. Christopher embraced him and groaned, groin tightening with arousal. Tom drank freely of him, like sweet and vibrant nectar on his sensitive tongue, but only for a few moments. He pulled away and then looked at the body lying on the ground.

“For you,” Christopher said, smiling.

Tom regarded him, eyes wide with awe. And hunger. “A gift,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

He could immediately discern that the man’s back was broken. Christopher must have beaten him terribly to make the drink as easy for Tom as possible. What a lovely notion.

Gone was his queasiness at the taking of human blood, his mild disgust whenever Christopher had mentioned it before. This here was _life_ , was his and Christopher’s lives. And they would be beautiful and long, indeed.

He rolled the man over. Unconscious.

Pierce of skin, gush of blood, and Tom moaned, gathering the man into his arms, the taste of his salt, flavor of skin. Christopher walked a slow circle around him, eyes black as his own must surely be, lips parted and fangs gleaming.

Tom watched him, latched onto the trembling vein, and he moaned, cock hardening painfully.

Christopher glanced down and smiled. Stepping close, he simply cupped Tom’s cheek and Tom screamed from the pleasure of it, stifled with blood and flesh. His orgasm was too much, too fast, too strong. He squeezed the unconscious man in his arms, breaking bone with ease. He rocked on his knees, releasing inside his trousers, and Christopher murmured yes, squatting down beside him, sniffing at his temple.

The flow of blood slowed and Tom lifted off the cold neck, licking his lips, tongue catching on his own fangs. He’d have to get used to them, their length and position in his mouth.

The body fell limp to the ground.

Nuzzling at his jaw, Christopher hummed sweetly, cradling his head, hands trailing over Tom’s chest and back.

_You’re real._

The words appeared in Tom’s head as loudly as if Christopher had spoken them. So that is what telepathy felt like.

 _And you’re mine_ , Tom thought.

Christopher grinned, barking out an ecstatic laugh into the night. He pulled Tom in for a hard kiss, mouths slotting together, tongues winding, the taste of blood like blooms of tulips between them.

Below them, the valley spread cold and barren, not a hint of the wild meadows of flowers that would blossom in the spring. Nothing of the butterflies that blanketed the lands of his youth. But Tom knew. Tom remembered. Their home was nearly finished. He would continue with his work. And he would walk these hills by night, with Christopher, and their countless years of life under the moon.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


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